The Kiss
by Serialgal
Summary: A story of love and betrayal. Can Don and Charlie's relationship withstand the ultimate test?
1. Chapter 1

**The Kiss**

 _Author's note: This story is a departure for me – it is relationship-oriented and more of a romantic tale than a crime fic. It definitely has its dark moments and some whumping – primarily emotional, and I should warn you, there is a character death. As always, I test the brothers' relationship – and you might call this the ultimate test._

 _The story begins a few months after the last episode of the show. Charlie has been married for a few months, and Don is engaged to Robin. There is mention of sex in the first chapter – it is implied only, not explicit, and no worse than prime time TV. One more thing – Amita will seem very OC in this fic – but I never write OC for any of the series characters unless there is a really good reason for them to be OC. That's all I'll say at the moment – you'll have to read on to find out the reason. The story is mostly finished, it will end up at a little over 20 chapters._

 _Are you ready for a tear-jerker? Come on in._

 _Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, but I do claim rights to the storyline. Any resemblance of characters to real people, living or dead; is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story._

 **Chapter 1**

In retrospect, Charlie could see the signs. He'd always been a bit clueless when it came to reading others, however, and later, he blamed his ineptitude in that regard for not seeing the subtle changes sooner – or at least, for not understanding what they were when he did see them.

Tuesday seemed normal enough. It was months after his wedding to Amita Ramanujan, and after returning from a six month stint at Oxford, life had settled into a fairly predictable routine. Amita had moved in before they were married, but marriage had given her license to execute a few of her own decorating ideas, and she had transformed his bedroom in his Craftsman house into _their_ bedroom. They had converted the garage into a suite for his father, Alan, to give the newlyweds some added privacy in the main house, but his father was very much a part of their lives. He was partially retired and still did much of the cooking, and most evenings they ate together. Charlie and Amita would both rise in the morning and share a ride to campus, and after a day of teaching and research at Cal Sci, would head home together in the evening. Sometimes, if Charlie was doing consulting work for the FBI on a case for his brother Don and needed to visit him at the office, they would have to make other arrangements as far as transportation went. Today was one of those days.

It was late in the afternoon, and Charlie knew that Amita's classes were over for the day. He checked a few last numbers on his work for the Williams case, packed his briefcase, locked his door, and made the short walk through the Cal Sci Mathematics department hallway from his large office to Amita's more modest one. Her door was partly ajar, and he rapped on it and leaned against the door jamb, smiling at her, as she looked up from her computer. She frowned slightly – apparently still concentrating on her work – and he said, "I have to run down to the FBI building to give Don and his team an update. If you're done I can drop you off at home, or I can pick you up on the way back if you're going to be here for a while yet. Or I'm sure Dad would be happy to come give you a lift if neither of those options work."

She straightened in her seat and a look of anticipation crossed her face. "How about if I come along? I can't look at this computer anymore – I'm going cross-eyed."

"You'll probably be bored," Charlie warned her. In the past she had occasionally helped consult on cases, herself, but recently had allowed her contract with the FBI to expire in order to concentrate on her teaching career, so she would probably be excluded from the meeting – or at least would be relegated to bystander. "I can drop you off at home – it's not a problem." Home, actually, was just a couple of miles from campus – if it wasn't for the computers and papers they lugged home every night, it was walkable.

She rose, scooping up papers and loading her laptop and files into her briefcase. "No, I want to take a ride downtown, if nothing else. We never go anywhere. I need to get out – somewhere other than school or home."

She stepped out and turned out the lights and locked her office door, and Charlie looked at her, his brow furrowed. "We went out Saturday with Don and Robin."

She grimaced. "That doesn't count."

He eyed her sideways as they walked to the car, and he could feel the little flutter of anxiety, the one that came so often these days, return to his gut. She seemed dissatisfied lately, impatient. About what, he wasn't sure, but it seemed as though she was nearly always brooding and irritable, no matter what the situation. He had subtly tried to draw her out to find out what was bothering her, but with no success – when he asked her what was wrong, the usual response was, ' _Nothing, I'm just in bad mood_.' He had thought she normally liked to go out with Don and his fiancée, Robin Brooks, but it was true, she hadn't seemed to enjoy herself Saturday night. She had made small talk, but she didn't smile much, and he got the sense that she was annoyed about something – and that maybe it was something related to him. It wasn't that she'd never had a bad mood when they were dating – but the moods back then were less frequent and she was more polite – she hid her feelings better. Something had changed.

They got into their respective seats in silence, and Charlie started his Prius and pulled it out of the lot, still reflecting on her recent behavior. She was always tired at bedtime, and their sex life had waned – not through lack of trying on his part – although, lately, when Amita did make the effort, she seemed to be more adventurous – wilder, impulsive. The sessions both drove him crazy, and freaked him out just a bit. Of course, maybe all of this changing behavior was just due to her becoming more comfortable with being herself, now that they were married. Or – a thought struck him suddenly and he turned to her, his eyes wide. "Are you pregnant?"

She gaped at him. "What?! No!" She scowled at him. "You know I'm on birth control pills. Why would you even say that?"

He glanced back toward the road, flushed, and shrugged. "It's just –you've, uh, been a little moody lately, and well, uh, you know…,"

His voice trailed off and he chanced a glance back at her again. Her scowl had deepened. She rolled her eyes and looked away from him, out the passenger window. "That would be all I need right now."

He blinked; her rude response admittedly shocked him a bit. His heart contracted, and he riveted his eyes on the road. Was the thought of having a child with him that horrible? He wasn't sure of himself around her anymore; being with her was like walking on eggshells. He was purposely trying to be calm and conciliatory, to carry on like nothing was the matter, but everything he said or did seemed to put her in a mood. He felt out of his element and had no clue how to get to the bottom of this. Was she second-guessing – was their marriage at risk? He shook himself. She had insisted nothing was wrong, he told himself. Maybe she was simply out of sorts, trying to assimilate the changes – a new husband, keeping up with a sizable house – and she had added responsibilities at school, he knew. It was probably just a little stress.

Amita reached over and turned on the radio, flipping through the channels until she heard something she liked, and music filled the void. By the time they got to the offices she seemed to perk up a bit; the sullen stare was gone and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.

On the elevator, she chatted amiably about what they should do for dinner; maybe they should take advantage of the fact that they were out and stop for dinner downtown somewhere. The doors opened and they bustled into the office toward the bullpen. Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes was standing at his desk and he turned and saw them, a smile creasing his face. "I see you've brought some help."

They both smiled and Charlie said to his brother, "Amita came along for the ride. Hope you don't mind. I'm going to head in to set up," and he made for the conference room.

As he walked away, he heard Don say to Amita, "How are you feeling? You seemed pretty quiet Saturday night." So he had noticed it, too.

Charlie glanced out of the corner of his eye, as Amita blushed prettily and smiled, and said, "Sorry, I just had the worst headache that night…," The rest of her statement was lost as he entered the conference room.

Agents David Sinclair and Colby Granger hurried in behind him, smiling, exchanging greetings, and they immediately started talking about the case. Charlie half-listened, glancing through the glass window as he pulled out his files, and he could see his brother still chatting with Amita, both of them smiling. They were standing a little too close, their eyes locked on each other, and Amita was laughing at something Don said as he smiled down at her. Charlie stared, and his grip tightened on the folder in his hands. Were they – _flirting_? Colby asked him a question and Charlie jerked his gaze back down at his briefcase and tried to compose himself before he turned. "What was that?"

Colby grinned. "Earth to Charlie. Do you want the screen turned on?"

"Oh – uh – yes, thanks," said Charlie, and he turned back to his briefcase and lifted his laptop out and connected it to the projection system. He glanced up surreptitiously, back at the tableau in the office. Amita had drifted even closer to Don, who was talking, his expression teasing, and he touched her lightly on the arm and then turned and headed for the conference room. Her eyes followed him, and she tilted her head up, still smiling, and walked toward the conference room.

Don brushed past Charlie with a pat on the arm exactly like the one he had just given Amita. A brotherly pat. Nothing more, Charlie told himself. He was being irrational. When Don spoke casually to someone and was in a fair mood, he was apt to smile, to tease. His good looks and the irresistible crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiled had a tendency to make women sit up and take notice – but that was natural behavior for Don. He didn't necessarily mean to flirt. It was reflexive; Charlie had seen him turn on his charm with more than one woman. It didn't mean a thing. Don was finally committed, after all, and his days of dating and a sequence of relationships were behind him. In fact, he had seen very little of Don outside of work since his brother gotten engaged to Robin – Don spent nearly all his free time with her. Charlie was projecting his insecurities regarding Amita on the situation, he realized, and reading something into their interaction that just wasn't there. He flushed, embarrassed by his own paranoid suspicions.

"I told Amita she could sit in on this," said Don quietly as he passed, and Amita entered and made her way to the back of the room. The last member of Don's team, Nikki Betancourt, hurried in as Charlie pulled up his laptop, and began to speak.

The meeting went well, and afterward, Charlie called home and told his father they were going out for dinner. He and Amita went to a Middle Eastern restaurant a few blocks away. She was upbeat; cheerful now, and Charlie began to relax a little. Amita perused the menu, and said, "You know, I think I'm going to try something new – maybe the lamb shish kebab."

Charlie stared at her, his mouth open. "You don't eat red meat."

Amita sighed and smiled, and sat back. "It's never too late to try something new. I want to find out what I'm missing. You know, those steaks your dad made for the two of you smelled amazing the other night. The eggplant he made for me was great, but it got me thinking, why am I restricting myself? It's not like I'm a practicing Hindu in any other way. And many Hindus these days eat meat, anyway."

Charlie said nothing; he could think of nothing to say. It seemed to him that suddenly throwing away a lifelong practice of observing partial vegetarianism for religious and cultural reasons needed some more thought, but he could hardly argue when he didn't practice his own faith. He wondered what her parents, Sanjay and Tapti, would say. He rubbed his forehead as he considered his menu. It was just one more thing – one more unpredictable quirk in her recent behavior that made him wonder how well he really knew her. Maybe _he_ was the problem – he worked so many hours, maybe he was neglecting her; not taking enough time to really find out what she was thinking. He looked up and smiled at her. "Lamb sounds good." He ordered for both of them, and requested a bottle of wine.

It was a nice evening, one of the best they'd had recently, and when they got home Charlie was feeling contented and relaxed, and Amita seemed to be relaxed, as well. Later, when he settled into bed and he watched her climb in next to him, he reached for her and kissed her gently. Her scent, the sensation of her lips, sent a shot of arousal through him and he began to deepen the kiss. To his infinite relief, she didn't push back like she had so many nights recently, instead, she responded.

Afterward, he lay back, gasping, still reeling from mind-blowing sex. Amita had not only responded; she'd been crazed, wild, more aroused than he'd ever seen her. Maybe she _was_ acting a little differently lately, but not all of it was bad, he reflected, as he breathed deeply. Maybe she was concerned about being in a rut now that she was married, and was just trying to spice up things a little. He reached for her, hoping to cuddle, but she pushed his arm away and turned on her side, away from him. "It's too hot," she said, a little crossly. "Go to sleep, we need to get up in the morning."

Just like that, the little frisson of doubt was back.

* * *

Amita sensed Charlie's hand reaching for her and she pushed it away.

She'd been feeling out of sorts for weeks, with almost unbearable anxiety and irritation crawling up her insides. She was overloaded at work, but worse yet was beginning to wonder if she'd made the right choice in her profession; she was beginning to find academia lacking somehow. She was bored, she was restless to the point of distraction; and deep down she was beginning to doubt her ability in her chosen field of mathematics. She had to admit, she felt completely outclassed by Charlie's genius. Marriage, too, wasn't what quite she'd hoped. She was beginning to find Charlie dull. He was consumed by work; work that used to interest her as well, but didn't anymore. They didn't go anywhere, do anything _fun_ , and she was beginning to get the horrible feeling that she'd settled down too soon – that life was passing her by. Charlie was a good lover – considerate in bed, passionate, and was gentle and caring – but she wanted more. He was _too_ caring, too gentle. She wanted morepassion, more edge, more danger, more – _something_. And until tonight, she hadn't realized what that something was.

Seeing Don at the office was like setting a spark to tinder. The mere act of talking to him made her feel more alive. It made her think of that almost-forgotten moment, long ago, when as a graduate student, she had first tagged along with Charlie to the FBI offices, and had met Don for the first time. It was before she and Charlie were dating, and she had felt the same intense attraction to Don that she had today. A few weeks after that first meeting, they had been at the offices late one night as Charlie helped with another case, and Don had driven them both home when they were done – Charlie, who hadn't bothered with something as trivial as a driver's license until well after he was out of school, didn't drive in those days. Don had dropped Charlie off at home first, and then had driven Amita to her apartment. During the brief ride silence had descended, heavy with anticipation. She could see the way Don looked at her, and when he walked her to her apartment door that night, after she'd thanked him they had stared at each other for a moment, and then unexpectedly he leaned forward and kissed her. It was gentle and brief, but so – _hot_.

He'd never followed up on the kiss – never asked her out, although she wondered several times if he hadn't been thinking about it. But then as time went on she'd gotten interested in Charlie. Don had probably seen that her relationship with his brother had taken off and had never pursued anything further, and the incident faded into the past. An anomaly, as Charlie would put it – a blip on the radar that meant nothing. She had never told Charlie, and had even forgotten about it herself.

Until now. Or until three weeks ago, to be precise. Don had stopped by Charlie's office to discuss a case with him and Amita had walked in, and suddenly the sight of him, leaning casually against Charlie's desk with that rakish smile, had hit her in the gut. She'd brooded over him for two weeks, and the real reason for her sour mood Saturday night at dinner was seeing Don seated across the table – with Robin Brooks at his side, the woman he planned to marry. Jealousy flared. But tonight, seeing him at the office had given her hope. He had _flirted_ with her – there was no doubt, and she flirted back, shamelessly, and she could tell that he liked it. The encounter had lifted her mood immediately.

Don was seductive, charming, extremely masculine, commanding, worldly – a little bit of a bad boy, a little dark, a little dangerous. Charlie was sweet, a bit unsure of himself socially, considerate, loving, naïve – a little too good, a little too clueless; a little too safe. Tonight, when she and Charlie had made love, she had closed her eyes and imagined it was Don in bed with her – and it had been unimaginably good – the best sex of her life, leaving her panting, staring at the ceiling, almost in a state of shock. And now, as she lay on her side and stared at the plaster swirls on the wall still swimming in front of her eyes, she knew.

She had married the wrong brother.

End, Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: The plot bunny for this story goes way back. In one of the early episodes when Charlie brings Amita to the office for the first time, she and Don sidle past each other in the office and definitely give each other a 'look.' In the un-aired pre-pilot, there is actually a scene where Don and Charlie are in a bar with several others, and Don hits on Charlie's girlfriend while Charlie glares across the room at him. I definitely think the writers were toying with making the Don-Amita thing an issue to introduce conflict between the brothers, and they planted that scene in the early episodes so they could do it later. Then they chickened out, or decided to go another direction. The 'what if' has been in my mind ever since._

Chapter 2

For Amita, the next week dragged by. The pleasure of seeing Don at the office and the euphoria of her imagined lovemaking with him had faded, and in their place crept despair and desperation. She tried to push the feelings away, but found herself thinking of ways to see him again, dreaming of how she could get him to notice her and drop Robin before it was too late. She knew the reality of that happening was slim, but she also knew if she could get Don alone and could get him to act on the sparks that were flying between them, that he would not be able to deny what lay between them. Attraction that deep could not be ignored – by either of them. And if she could get him to admit his feelings for her, they could go from there together – call off the wedding, get her marriage to Charlie annulled – it had only been a few months, after all. A part of her said that it was all insane; that this was a temporary fixation that would go away in time – but a part of her worried that maybe it wouldn't. And if it didn't, she would need to act, because she couldn't live this way – married to Charlie and in love with Don. It would be better for all concerned if she brought this to a head now, and made sure that Don understood her feelings. She knew; she _knew_ that deep inside, he was attracted to her as well.

So she thought about what she could do to make an excuse to see him alone, and decided on a pseudo-project concerning crime reduction by using the security camera systems stationed around L.A. She didn't even need to develop the idea fully, she decided – just enough so that it sounded like a project – just enough for an excuse for a meeting. Still, it took a bit of development to come up with a plausible-sounding idea, and she worked on it in fits and starts – it was slow going, just like her other work. She couldn't concentrate these days – all she could think of was Don's face, his sharp, teasing dark eyes… and those lips. She wanted to feel them again, pressed against hers.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Cassandra, from the cleaning service, poked her head in. "Okay to come in and sweep?" she asked.

Amita perked up, and waved a hand for Cassandra to enter. "Sure."

She'd made a friend of sorts in Cassandra over the last month; the girl was about her age, and although she was poor and from a background that was light years from Amita's own upbringing, secretly she envied her. Cassandra stopped by every day toward the end of the day when they were both bored and ready to be done for the day, and they chatted. The girl was only high-school educated and was not ambitious; she didn't have much, but she did have a group of friends and a boyfriend that got together nearly every evening. They frequented a bar on the edge of Pasadena called Petey's – it was a little seedy and wasn't thought of too well by the upper-middle class Pasadena population – and it sounded fun. Cassandra drank and smoked, played pool at the bar, gossiped, and made out with her boyfriend out back, in the lot behind the bar.

When Amita had been a teenager growing up in California, she had done some of that. She snuck out, snuck beer and cigarettes. She even had marijuana possession on her record – she had been with her boyfriend at a concert and he had gotten caught with a joint. He had faced a more serious penalty; she had just gotten a fine and a slap on the wrist. It had horrified her parents however, and it had shocked Charlie when she told him, years later, after they had been dating for a while. She felt a twinge of annoyance at the thought – who was he to judge? He was so irritating – and he irritated her constantly now. She couldn't stand to be around him, ever since she had realized her feelings for Don. Charlie, after all, was the reason she wasn't free to pursue those feelings. She pushed him out of her mind and smiled at Cassandra. "What's up?"

Cassandra shrugged her skinny shoulders and tossed her poker straight blonde hair, and sighed as she dragged the broom slowly across the floor. "Not much. Can't wait to get out of here. How about you?"

Amita sighed in return, and her shoulders slumped as she looked down at her papers. "Me too."

Cassandra stopped and lifted an eyebrow, considering her. "Hey, you're probably busy and all, but, uh, would you want to maybe stop for a drink after work? You could meet me at Petey's." She flushed a little. "I mean, maybe we could go somewhere – someone like you probably doesn't like to hang at Petey's."

"Petey's sounds awesome," said Amita, quickly, before she had thought the offer through. "I've been wanting to check it out ever since you told me about it." ' _And really, why not?_ ' she thought to herself. Anything to get out of the house. Anything to get away from Charlie.

Cassandra brightened. "Okay – like 5:00?"

"Sure," said Amita. "Five is good."

* * *

Petey's turned out to be a dive. It boasted three rooms with worn wooden floors that smelled like smoke and stale beer. The crowd was rough-looking, but young, and there were several motorcycles out front. Cassandra was waiting for Amita at the main bar in the front room with a beer already on the counter and a cigarette in her hand. "Hey," she said, beaming. She seemed more relaxed on her own turf. "Petey has some drafts on special, regular or light – or do you want a mixed drink?"

"A draft – light - is good," said Amita, looking around.

Cassandra motioned to the bartender, who also, it turned out, was Petey, the bar owner. He was a solid, dour man with salt and pepper sideburns, and a moment later, a mug of beer crossed the counter. Amita pulled out her wallet but Cassandra waved her off. "I got it," she said. "I put it on Joey's tab." Joey was her boyfriend. "C'mon," she said, grinning. "Come and meet my friends. They're in the back room, playing pool."

She took Amita in the back room and introduced her to Joey and the rest of the crowd, which included two girls and four men, who all looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties. The guys all looked as though they did manual labor – they were lean, hard-muscled, and most of them wore sleeveless shirts that showed off their arms. The girls wore tight jeans and lazy sardonic smirks, but they welcomed Amita with nods as she and Cassandra slid onto stools around a high table. The room was hazy with smoke, and everyone in there had a cigarette. Cassandra stubbed out the butt of her current cigarette in an ashtray and pulled out her pack. She extended it toward Amita. "Need a smoke?"

It had been years since Amita had snuck cigarettes and the truth was, she hadn't cared for them that much at the time, but the thought of those long ago stolen freedoms resonated in her mind. Suddenly, all of this – the slightly bad crowd, the beer, the cigarettes – seemed like every freedom that was missing in her current life, that she had missed during years of study. "Sure," said Amita.

She took one and Cassandra lit it, and Amita took a modest drag – she didn't want to start choking. It wasn't as harsh as she remembered; it felt cool in her throat, and she felt an almost immediate sense of relaxation. She noticed a couple of the men looking at her with interest, and she felt a sense of euphoria. "God, I needed this," she said, and Cassandra beamed. Cassandra introduced her to her friends, Becca and Jess, and they chatted for a while, Amita mostly listening, in truth a bit fascinated by the little glimpses of their lives. They all held minimum wage jobs and obviously didn't have much money, but their lives seemed relatively stress-free, uncomplicated. Eventually, one of the men sidled over to them and nodded at Amita. "Hi – I'm Derrick."

Amita looked up at him. He definitely had a bad-boy air about him. Tall, medium brown hair; solidly muscled, a direct gaze, although perhaps not too bright. He was staring at her like he was starving, and she was a sandwich. She smiled back at him. "I'm Amita."

He jerked his head around toward the pool table as one of the other men called out – his turn – and he nodded at her and moved back toward the table, shooting a "Nice to meet you," over his shoulder.

"I can't believe you're a _professor_ ," said Jess. She giggled. "I just, like, see this old man in my mind."

Becca took a drag on her cigarette and eyed Amita appraisingly. "Cassandra says you're married to another professor."

"Yeah, and _he's_ young, too," said Cassandra. "He has long dark curly hair – he's really cute."

Amita made a face, and Jess said, "What?"

Cassandra shot Amita a glance, then said conspiratorially to the others, "I think there's trouble in paradise."

"Really?" said Becca. "How come?"

Amita hesitated. She had just met them; she shouldn't be airing dirty laundry – but they were looking at her with sympathetic eyes, and the urge to get some of the frustration off her chest was overwhelming. Not a word about Don though, she told herself – how she felt about him was _her_ secret. She took a swig of her beer, and began to talk.

* * *

Three weeks later, at about 4:00 in the afternoon, Charlie looked down at his cell phone as it vibrated, and winced as he pulled up the text message. Amita was going out with her friends again – a practice that had started suddenly, and the last week she'd gone out three nights out of seven. Today would be her second night this week – and it was only Wednesday.

His friend and mentor, Larry Fleinhardt, was sitting across the desk from him, and picked up on the expression. "Your brother, I presume," he said.

Charlie caught at the excuse. "Ah, uh, yeah. I have to head over to the offices to meet with him and the team." That much was true – he had to leave in a few minutes. He texted back to Amita. ' _Okay- I have to run downtown, anyway. I'll see you at home later.'_

Larry nodded. "The gang case?"

Charlie hit 'send' and looked up. "Yes. Although what I'm doing is not really associated with any one case. I'm trying to develop some algorithms for predicting gang activity in general. It came about after the Black Bloods gang shooting, but it's really more of a preventive thing." He started pulling his papers together. "I actually have to get going.'

Larry didn't move immediately; he sat, his eyes on his friend. "You look a little tired."

Charlie hesitated a moment. He was aching to tell someone what was happening with Amita – her strange behavior, the nights away, the fact that she returned late, smelling like cigarette smoke and alcohol, sneaking into bed after the lights were out. That she avoided him and had become irritable and downright hostile when he tried to speak to her – and that she no longer tried to hide those emotions. That he had to make excuses for her absences when his dad asked if they would be home for dinner – he had lied more than once and had stayed later at school and gone without dinner himself in order to make his dad think he and Amita had gone out together. That she had stopped riding to and from campus with him and took her own car every day.

He was confused, he was dying inside, and about to explode with anxiety and fear – but Larry wasn't the person he wanted to confide in – at least not yet. Larry could be quite perceptive, but he was no authority on relationships with women. Don _was_ – and besides, this was a family matter. Charlie felt instinctively that Don could help him with this, but he'd been unable to get him alone for a conversation. And his father was out of the question - he had been so thrilled to see Charlie and Amita marry, and so eager to follow the plans for Don and Robin's wedding. To admit there was a problem just a few months into the marriage would break his father's heart. Tonight, for sure, Charlie told himself – he would get Don to go out somewhere for a bite to eat, or a beer, and he would confide in him. Don would be able to tell him what to do.

He forced a smile, and shook his head. "Yes, maybe a little tired – lots of work to do."

Larry sighed, and stood. "You and Amita both seemed to be buried these days. Amita is so swamped she has put a simple request of mine for combinatorics analysis on the back burner for weeks now. You're both too young to be working so hard – you should get out and have some fun." He cocked his head and pointed at Charlie, smiling. "Take my advice – get out and play a little. Life is too short."

Charlie swallowed and tried to hold his smile. "Okay, point taken."

He drove downtown and went over his latest analysis at the office with Don and his team, and they discussed options for gathering more data. Afterward, as everyone bustled out and prepared to close up for the day, Charlie sidled up to Don at his desk. "Hey, I was – uh," he sidestepped out of the way as Don briskly whisked some files into his cabinet and locked it, and then turned his attention to his computer monitor, logging off and shutting his computer down. Don looked like he was in a hurry. Charlie continued anyway, a bit apprehensively. He'd better dial his request down to a quick stop for a drink. "I was wondering if you wanted to stop for a beer – not dinner or anything, just - ,"

Don's eyes were still on his monitor, his fingers clicking rapidly on the keyboard. "Uh – can I take a rain check, Charlie? I'm meeting Robin's sister tonight – she's in town – I promised Robin I'd meet them for dinner."

Charlie's heart dropped, and he tried to hide his disappointment. "I – uh – okay – but maybe a night this week? I really need to ask you something."

Logoff complete, Don had snatched up his keys, and was glancing at the time on his cell phone. At Charlie's last statement, his eyes connected with Charlie's briefly, and he frowned. "Sure, buddy, we'll make some time. Let me find out tonight what their plans are for this week – we're doing a bunch of wedding crap while her sister is here. Although God knows why – it's over a year and a half away." He grinned conspiratorially. "It'll be a good excuse to sneak away from some of that."

"Sure," said Charlie, again trying to summon a smile as Don turned and strode for the elevator. His shoulders slumped and he trudged back into the conference room. He took his time getting his things together and let the others file out – he didn't really feel like trying to force conversation with anyone on the elevator.

Once in his car, he sent his father a text message telling him that he and Amita were going out for dinner – the usual routine now, when she was going out – and started slogging through L.A. traffic. He wasn't in a hurry – he couldn't go home quite yet, since he was supposed to be out to dinner. He thought briefly that he should get something to eat, but he wasn't hungry. He was too tense, too worried, aw, hell, he was terrified. He couldn't be losing her – he _couldn't_. Was she just disillusioned? If that was all, if he could get her to talk to him and admit they had a problem, they could get marriage counseling. Or was it deeper? She had been acting so strangely. Was there someone else?

He suddenly needed to know more, to know _something_ , anything that could give him a clue. He had heard her drop the name of a place called Petey's, and he suspected that was where she had been going. He pulled over into a parking lot and looked it up on his phone. Petey's… there were actually two of them – apparently not connected at all, but one was in San Gabriel and the other on the south side of Pasadena. He scratched his head as he looked at the map. He knew that section of town – it was the one section in Pasadena that could be called just a little seedy; it sported several bars that the college kids liked to frequent, and a couple of others popular with the biker crowd. He couldn't imagine the attraction of such a place, unless she was hanging out with some of the college kids. However, the Pasadena location was the obvious choice – San Gabriel was too far away – so he pulled back out into traffic and headed for Pasadena.

A trip down the street where Petey's was located brought back a few memories – during his early years at Cal Sci Charlie had gone himself with some of the college students to a few of these bars. That one was a Cal Sci hangout – and that one – but Petey's was definitely a biker bar; not one that the college students frequented. He recognized Amita's car in the parking lot and frowned, his car idling at the curb across the street. A girl with lank brown hair, a black tank top and skinny jeans climbed out of a rusty old Cavalier parked just ahead of him at the curb, and he idly watched her cross the street and disappear inside. It was a beautiful afternoon and the front door had been left open, invitingly, but he couldn't see inside – it was too dark, compared to the brightness outside. Should he go in? He could amble in, all smiles – ' _Hi honey, I thought I'd stop by and see you_ ,' and see who she was with – but he was afraid of what she might do. She'd been so openly hostile lately – he was afraid he'd just make her angry; make things worse.

So instead he sighed and put his car into gear, and headed toward campus. Maybe he'd spend a couple of hours there, working on projects. His dad usually didn't leave his own apartment after dinner time unless he was specifically invited over, so Charlie knew he could just hang out at his office until eight or so, and sneak into the house – alone. His father wouldn't be the wiser.

* * *

Becca strolled inside the bar, and as she walked up to Amita, Cassandra, and Jess, she jerked her head toward the street. "I think your hubby is sitting outside. You said he drives a blue Prius, right? Young guy with dark curly hair?"

"What?" Amita's mouth dropped, and she headed toward the front room and the open front door, the girls and Derrick and Joey trailing behind her, curiously, all of them in time to see Charlie roll slowly past the bar entrance in his car. She was a little shocked that he would follow her, but it actually supported the story she'd been feeding her new crowd of friends. _Charlie was controlling; he didn't like her to go out. He was dull and dry, and manipulative, and tried to keep her away from the world. She was trying to break free for her own good._ They ate up the story – they loved the drama of it.

Behind her, Derrick smacked a fist into his hand, his face dark. "Is that little bastard _stalking_ you?"

Amita fluttered her eyelids and put a fearful expression on her face. "That's what I _mean_ ," she said. "That's the kind of thing he does."

"You need to break it off, honey," said Jess. "You deserve better than that."

They clustered around her as they headed toward the back room again, and Becca eyed them thoughtfully as she followed. Maybe Amita's husband _was_ stalking her, but when she walked past him, he didn't really look angry – more like _sad_. And he honestly didn't look like the kind of guy who would hurt a fly. Becca shrugged. What did she know? There had to be _something_ wrong with him – why would a woman in her right mind want to get rid of a perfectly cute guy who made good money, otherwise?

* * *

A few hours later, Amita couldn't stand it anymore. She'd enjoyed the attention she'd gotten after her friends had gotten a glimpse of Charlie – Derrick's response was especially gratifying. He was attracted to her, she knew, and he apparently was the jealous type, and more than a little overprotective. He glowered all evening at the imaginary threat from the 'little bastard,' and hovered over her solicitously. As the topic waned and she was no longer the center of attention (except for Derrick), however, she began to reflect on Charlie's visit. Her irritation with her husband had morphed into full blown anger over the past few weeks, and tonight it was flaring. How dare Charlie follow her? Sneaking around in that stupid little blue car – like she was doing something wrong. She deserved to have a little fun in her life, didn't she? She was out for a simple little night with friends, and there he was, trying to ruin even that. If it had been Don, she knew, he would have come inside, grabbed a beer and joined the fun – and thrown his arm around her and claimed her, like a man should. Charlie was such a little wimp – and sneaky too.

The longer she thought about it, the more irritated she got. She was going to give him a piece of her mind when she got home. She was suddenly spoiling for a fight, and as the evening wore on, it became all she could think of. She couldn't enjoy the evening anymore – Charlie had ruined it. And so, at around nine, hours earlier than her usual quitting time, she left. She was sure to leave an excuse with her group that would put her in a good light, and Charlie in a bad one – "I'm just worried about staying out too late, now that I know he was here," and with murmurs of sympathy following her, she headed for the door.

Derrick strode after her, and caught her at the doorway. "You have any problem with that little shit, you call me, okay?" he murmured roughly. "I mean it."

"Okay," she breathed. "Thanks, Derrick."

She smiled grimly to herself as she headed for her car. If she needed witnesses during the annulment process to shore up her side of the story, she had a whole group. Maybe if she could paint Charlie in a bad enough light, it would sway Don, as well. He would be angry at Charlie, and sympathetic with her…

She got behind the wheel, and with her irritation escalating along with the needle on the speedometer, headed for home. She had met with a lawyer earlier that week. As she had suspected, divorce proceedings were not necessary due to the short length of time of the marriage and other factors, like the fact that they had no children; an annulment would be allowed. They had drawn up annulment paperwork on the spot, and had it witnessed by one of the lawyer's staff, who was also a notary public. It seemed a little sudden at the time, but tonight she was convinced that it had been right to proceed. The document was signed, sealed, and legal – she just had been looking for a good time to discuss it, and the right arguments to convince Charlie to sign it. Maybe tonight was the night.

* * *

Just to be safe, Charlie had decided to work upstairs at his desk in the bedroom. He'd done that more than once already on the nights Amita was out, on the off chance that his father would venture into the house after dinner and wonder why she wasn't around. If his dad thought they were upstairs in the bedroom, he'd make a hasty retreat – and Alan would hopefully not notice that Amita's car wasn't parked alongside the house, in its usual spot behind Charlie's Prius.

When Charlie heard the front door open and close at around nine-thirty, he was surprised. Amita normally didn't get home that early when she went out with her friends. With both hope and anxiety stirring in his gut, he lifted his head from the book on his desk. Maybe tonight they could talk - maybe begin to tackle this thing – whatever it was. He could hear her footsteps approaching – she was coming upstairs, then – and he closed his book and began to rise from his chair, as the door jerked open. He stood and turned and tried to put a smile on his face. "You're home early –,"

The words died on his lips as she slammed the door behind her and stalked into the room. They had rearranged the room so that the foot of the bed faced the door, and his desk was on the wall to the left side of the bed. She stopped at the foot of the bed, scowling at him across the corner of it. "What in the hell was that, today, Charlie? You _followed_ me to Petey's? What is _wrong_ with you?!"

She looked furious, on the verge of losing control, and for a moment, Charlie could do nothing but blink, taken aback by the depth of her anger. "I – uh – I didn't follow you, I just stopped by -,"

"You s _topped by_? Don't lie to me! It was hours after I left campus. How long were you sitting there? Do you know how embarrassing that is? One of my friends saw you and pointed you out – it was humiliating!" Her voice rose as she talked, her fists were clenched. He had never seen her like this.

Shock was starting to give way to anger, however, and he retorted back. "And do you know how humiliating it is to have your wife go out of her way to avoid you – and to have to make excuses for why you're never around? Amita – we need to talk – it's time we sat down - ,"

"Talk! TALK?! Okay, let's talk!" Amita screamed. "Let's talk about how you're ruining my life! Let's talk about how much I can't stand you!"

"I – what?" said Charlie, weakly, his heart contracting. She couldn't mean that – she must have been drinking – he'd picked the wrong time for this, he realized suddenly. She was trembling. He moved toward her, his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. He need to calm her down, take her into his arms, and just hold her until she calmed down…

"Stay away from me!" she screamed. She backed up one step, then seized the lamp on the table beside her, and swung it like a baseball bat.

It was a tabletop lamp but it was brass, tall and heavy, and Charlie was far too close to dodge it. He tried to swing around out of the way, but the plate-like base caught him on the back of his left rib cage with a resounding crack, and the blow brought him to his knees facing away from her, gasping for air. The lamp bounced off his body and went spinning across the bed and crashed on the floor on the other side, and Amita lunged for it and held it up, facing him across the bed as Charlie staggered to his feet, his hand on his side. He couldn't find words – or breath – to speak.

She brandished the lamp, her dark hair awry; fury on her face. "Stay away from me," she grated through clenched teeth. "Get out of here – I don't care where you sleep – you just need to _leave!_ " She reached down suddenly with one hand and grabbed his pillow and flung it at him. He caught it reflexively and clutched it, still fighting pain and shock and only half-aware he was holding it, and he backed around the edge of the bed toward the door, all the while watching her. She still held the lamp aloft, poised to strike, but she stayed where she was.

He made it outside and shut the door, and he could hear the lamp drop with a thump and Amita burst into tears on the other side of it, but he didn't dare go back in. He backed away with his eyes on the door to make sure she wasn't following, then turned and staggered down the hall. At the top of the stairs he hesitated, shaking, trying to figure out where to go. Should he leave? His ribcage was throbbing and pain stabbed him when he took a deep breath. Where would he go in this condition, at this time of night? The thought crossed his mind that he could go to the hospital to get checked out – tell them he fell down the stairs, but the real truth was so humiliating and he was so rattled that he couldn't bear the thought of trying it. Finally he turned and headed for the end of the hallway and the door and the short flight of stairs that led up to the solarium. He opened the door and started up the steps in the darkness, painfully, then stopped midway as he recalled the depth of hatred in her eyes, and quietly crept back down and locked the door.

End, Chapter 2

 _A/N: The bit about Amita and the marijuana when she was young was apparently actually canon, I have read in a Numb3rs fact source. I don't remember the episode, but it apparently came to light, and Charlie was less than impressed._

 _I told you she would be OC. Didn't believe me now, did ya?_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. They are always appreciated._

Chapter 3

Amita sat up and stretched on Cassandra's sofa, and gratefully accepted a mug of steaming coffee as morning light streamed through the window.

After Charlie had retreated from the bedroom last evening, Amita had thrown the lamp down, sobbing over what she'd been reduced to. He'd _made_ her do it – couldn't he see how he provoked her? Eventually, she calmed down, but she knew she had to leave. They had come to blows – it was definitely over.

She had pulled the annulment papers out of her purse and left them lying on the bed, took off her wedding ring and flung it next to them, and then had gathered up armfuls of her clothes from the closet and crept downstairs and left them on the sofa. She made four trips, bringing down clothes and shoes and toiletries and two suitcases, and had quietly packed on the sofa in semi-darkness. Then she let herself out of the house, closed the door softly behind her, put her suitcases in the trunk, and got into her car.

She pulled away from the house – she would come back another day when Charlie and Alan weren't there and get the rest of her things. But for now, where to go? It was still early enough – her friends should still be up. She made a phone call to Cassandra, who assured her she could camp on her sofa as long as she needed, and a half hour later she was pulling up to the small non-descript townhouse that Cassandra rented, in an equally non-descript neighborhood. Cassandra had come straight from the bar to meet her there. She played up the events as Cassandra welcomed her in with a sympathetic hug – she tearfully spoke of the argument, how she feared for her life, how she'd actually had to defend herself with a lamp. She was so convincing, by the end of the story she believed it herself.

They had talked for a while and she had told Cassandra about the annulment papers, and Cassandra had nodded approvingly. Finally they both went to bed. Cassandra's sofa was surprisingly comfortable, and Amita, exhausted, had slept soundly.

Now, this morning, Cassandra cupped her hands around her own mug of coffee, and perched on the arm of the sofa. "Sleep okay?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You can stay as long as you need," said Cassandra firmly. "Maybe you should file a police report."

"Well," Amita demurred, suddenly a little fearful that perhaps Charlie might do that himself. "He didn't really hit me – I fended him off with the lamp. If I reported it, I'm afraid he'd try to turn that around on me." She sighed, and then smiled. "I'm honestly happy just to be away from him." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Actually, there's another guy – we haven't acted on anything yet because I'm still married, but there's a definite connection between us. I'm going to see him tonight. And I think I'll call off work today and try to find a place to rent. I just feel so – _relieved_." She smiled at Cassandra brilliantly.

Cassandra looked at her a little oddly, but then smiled and nodded. "You've been through a lot. If you're looking for a guy to lean on, there's Derrick, too. I think that guy would fly to the moon and back for you, if you asked him. I've got to get going here – I have to get to work." She rose and started for the kitchen.

Amita smiled and sipped her coffee. "I know – Derrick's nice. But Don and I go way back – and he knows exactly how Charlie is – he's his brother. They never got along very well – I can see why, now. They're completely different. I ignored the connection between Don and me for too long – but once I'm free, we can fix that."

She sipped her coffee again, still smiling, not noticing that Cassandra had stopped dead in the doorway and was staring at her, her mouth open.

* * *

Charlie stirred on the solarium sofa, a frown coming to his face before he was even quite awake, and pain knifed through his ribcage. At the same instant, a recollection of the events of the night before hit him and his breath hitched, forced out of him by tandem physical and emotional pain. He fumbled for his cell phone and checked the time – slightly earlier than he usually arose to go to school – and grimacing, gingerly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He had been drifting in and out of sleep all night, and he felt groggy and exhausted.

He sat there for just a moment, unable to move, incapacitated by grief and pain. He had hoped that what had happened would seem better in the morning, but, as awareness returned, the events of the night before seemed just as unnerving, just as horrible as they had been when they occurred. Amita's anger had been shocking; she'd been out of control – almost hysterically angry. It seemed far out of proportion to the situation, and he could only attribute her reaction to alcohol. He wondered if she had calmed down – at least she would be sober this morning. Maybe she would be contrite – maybe he'd have a chance of convincing her to talk about what was bothering her if she felt guilty enough about her outburst the night before. The drinking, uncharacteristic of her, was just another sign that something was seriously wrong. They needed to get to the bottom of it somehow.

He rose slowly and moved stiffly down the solarium stairs, unlocking the door, and then down the hallway that led to their bedroom. His ribcage ached so badly that he could only take shallow breaths, and he shuffled as he walked. The house was quiet – she was probably still asleep. He was aware that his father was right next door in his apartment, and it seemed surreal that all this was happening and his dad had no inkling of it. It had gotten bad enough that Charlie was going to have to talk to him about what was going on, sooner or later.

He hesitated at the bedroom door, his hand on the knob, then turned it slowly and peeked inside. The room was empty, the bed still made. Charlie could see the open closet as he stepped through the doorway – most of her clothes were missing, and he realized with a shock that she was gone.

There was a thin sheaf of papers on the bed, and he moved over to them dazedly and picked them up. In his half-awake, semi-shocked state, it took a few moments for his brain to navigate the legal terms, but then he realized what he was reading – papers for the annulment of their marriage. As he lowered them, still in a daze, he saw her ring sitting there, discarded on the bed. Suddenly, it was all too much and he bent over, one hand over his face, as a sob escaped.

* * *

Don slid his Glock into its holster under his jacket and grabbed his cell phone and keys, locking his apartment door as he stepped out on his way to work. He reflected on the evening before with a smile as he loped down the stairs. Robin's sister – her half-sister, as it turned out, was nothing like Robin, in many respects. Robin was tall, dark, beautiful, intelligent, calm, thoughtful – and a bulwark of strength and understanding. Her sister, Rianna, who Robin called Ree, was at first glance Robin's polar opposite – true, she was smart and beautiful, like Robin, but she was petite and blonde where Robin was tall and brunette, and where Robin was calm and thoughtful, Ree was outgoing, talkative and hilariously funny. She had done a lot of traveling as a freelance writer, and the stories she had spun at dinner had them laughing non-stop. Don was smiling, still thinking about her tales as he opened the building door and headed out into the parking lot, when his cell phone rang. ' _Charlie_ ,' he thought to himself as he saw the screen; and he hit answer and said, "Hey buddy, how's it going?"

Charlie's voice sounded rough and exhausted, and Don frowned. " _Hi Don, I need to talk to you. It's uh – it's pretty urgent. Can I come over tonight?"_

Don's frown deepened. "Yeah, sure," he said, unease stirring in his gut at both Charlie's words and tone. "Robin and her sister are going to look at dresses tonight – I'm off the hook. What's going on?"

" _I – uh – I don't want to talk about it over the phone. I just – need some help – need your advice._ "

"Okay," Don said slowly, as he reached his car, and hit unlock with his key fob. He slid into the seat and shut the door. "How about seven? I'll have some beer cold."

" _Okay_." He could hear both exhaustion and relief in Charlie' voice. It sounded tight, like he was in pain.

"Charlie, are you sure you don't want to tell me what's going on?"

" _No – it's okay, as long as I know we can talk tonight. I'll see you then. Thanks_."

"Sure, buddy." The call disconnected, and Don frowned as he started the car, worry stirring in his gut. A host of possible issues ran through his head. Was Charlie sick? Or maybe Dad was. Probably not, he reflected almost immediately – Charlie had said he needed advice – that didn't sound like a medical issue. Don pursed his lips, considering, as he pulled out of the parking lot. Charlie worked cases for other agencies sometimes – maybe he had a problem related to another case that Don knew nothing about. He had sounded upset – but then again, Charlie was a champion brooder when something bothered him, and it wasn't always a big issue that would set him off – at least not a big issue from Don's perspective. He sighed and reluctantly dropped the train of thought. No sense worrying about it, he told himself. He would find out soon enough.

* * *

Charlie showered, dressed, and dragged himself to school. He was sorely tempted to call off, but the thought that Amita might show up there made him make the effort. He had no idea where she had gone, and worry about her and her state of mind added to his misery. He got to school only to find out that she wasn't there, and his despair deepened.

Thankfully his class load was lighter than normal that semester. He had only one class that day in the early afternoon and he slipped into his office, which was blessedly quiet. Not for long, however; he'd just settled behind his desk when there was a brisk knock at the door, and the Dean of the Mathematics and Sciences departments, Roger Willis, poked his head in. "Charlie, good; you're here – do you have a moment?"

"Sure," said Charlie, standing and managing not to wince as he did so, trying to sound normal, businesslike. He indicated a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

Willis nodded and crossed the room, and draped his lanky frame across the chair as Charlie sat, carefully. He eyed Charlie appraisingly – Charlie imagined that he looked tired and less than cheerful – but Willis made no comment. His face and demeanor were serious, and he said, "I stopped in to talk to you about Amita."

Charlie's heart leapt into his mouth – had something happened? Had she done something rash? "Am-mita?" he stammered.

Willis frowned. "Yes. She called off this morning – gave no real reason for it, and didn't bother to cover her classes." Charlie felt his heartbeat ratchet down to a more normal rate, and he took a deep breath. So it sounded like she was okay, at least physically. Probably still upset from last night – or hung over.

Willis went on. "That is reinforcing some other behavior, however – there seems to be a pattern here. She is behind in all of her projects, and her students are complaining about her lecture work and her tests – they say she has put problems on the tests that are missing necessary information, and her grading is very inconsistent. There's nothing really blatant – nothing that can't be resolved, I'm sure. It just seems that she isn't putting in the time and effort that she usually does, and a couple of the grad students she is mentoring say she doesn't seem to be interested in her work, or theirs, anymore. I want to speak to her, but I wanted to talk to you first. Is there something going on that I need to know about?"

Charlie stared at him, at a loss for what to say. ' _Something going on'_ was an understatement. "I -," he croaked, then stopped, then managed, "I'm not sure, myself. We're," he hesitated, "having some issues."

A look of comprehension quickly followed by sympathy crossed Willis' face. "I understand. That would explain a lot. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't think so," said Charlie softly. "At least not right now. I'll let you know if there is." The admission to another that there was a problem between him and Amita made his fears seem all the more real. On top of the events of last evening, the conversation was excruciating; he wanted nothing more than for Willis to leave.

Willis sighed, and said, "Okay, I'm sorry to hear that – but I am sure you two will work things out. When you talk to her, ask her to call me. I'll go easy on her, don't worry – but I have to let her know that her students are starting to complain. Maybe we need to adjust her work load for a while. And the same goes for you, if you need it. If you two need personal time to deal with this, just ask. I'll start thinking about who can fill in for you if you do."

"Thanks very much," said Charlie, gratefully, and he stood as Willis nodded and let himself out. Then he sank back into his chair, and put his head in his hands.

End Chapter 3

 _A/N: Next up - three points of a triangle converge..._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks, all, for the reviews, including the guest reviewers. It's definitely a motivator_ _when you know someone is reading._

Chapter 4

Amita spent the morning and early afternoon looking for an apartment, and she had found one near her old apartment building by around one o'clock. She signed the lease – she could move in immediately the woman in the office told her; the unit was empty. Then Amita stopped in at her usual beauty salon for a shampoo and style and a manicure. She wanted to look her best tonight. She went back to Cassandra's place and spent an hour poring over her clothes, picking just the right outfit, with slim-fitting slacks and a low cut top. Then it was on to accessories, makeup, perfume…

She was giddy. As low and angry as she had been yesterday, today she was happy, confident, her heart beating in anticipation of her meeting with Don tonight. She had decided not to call him – she would just go to his apartment this evening, taking a folder with her, pretending to just stop by to discuss her project. The real project sat at school, unfinished, but she didn't want to go in to get it after she had called off for the day, so she was going to wing it – to just take any folder with her as a prop. She really had no intention of discussing it in detail – the project was simply an excuse to show up, to be invited inside. Then, in private, she would tell Don about the pending annulment, and make it clear how she felt about him.

She was ready at four, and she knew he wouldn't be home before six, maybe later if he and his team had a hot case going. She whiled away the time impatiently and finally left at five, before Cassandra got home. Even with L.A. rush hour traffic she was in the parking lot of Don's apartment building before six, and she parked behind a cluster of cars, but not too far from the door to the building. His SUV wasn't in the lot yet but at around six-fifteen, she saw him pull in. He was alone, as she expected he might be at the end of his workday. She had been to his apartment before with Charlie and Robin for drinks before they went out, and she knew that he had to go through the outside building door and then walk upstairs. She let him get inside and then she grabbed her folder and headed for the building, cursing her choice of the high heels she had worn as she hurried across the lot. From her previous visit, she knew the lock for the outside door to the building was electronic and after it was unlocked it remained that way for a minute or two, and she got to it in time – it was still open. No need to buzz him to come up to his apartment – which was good. She felt instinctively that an element of surprise would be a good thing.

* * *

Don let himself into his apartment, threw his keys on the counter and un-holstered his Glock and set it on a side table, and then went over to check his refrigerator. He knew he had some beer in there… yes, it looked like he had plenty chilled.

He took off his jacket, sighed, wearily ran a hand through his hair, and then headed for the bedroom to hang his jacket. It had been a long day. A knock on the door brought him up short, and he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only six-twenty; Charlie was here early. Maybe it was just as well. Don was anxious to find out what was bothering him. Jacket still in hand, he crossed the room and opened the door, and the greeting died on his lips and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Hi Don," said Amita. She smiled at him, head tilted down just a bit, her eyes looking up at him under lowered lids. It made her look seductive – and so did the low-cut top she was wearing.

He found his voice. "Amita – I wasn't expecting to see you here." He was picking up a strange vibe from her, and felt oddly uncomfortable. He wondered briefly how she'd made it through the door downstairs without buzzing him. Maybe she'd come in with another tenant. Or maybe Charlie had loaned her his key.

She smiled and waved a folder at him. "I was going to be in the area at the end of the day, and I thought I'd stop and see if you were in. I've been working on this project – it's associated with the cameras you have set up in the high crime areas, and I wanted to run it past you to see if it's something you think you want before I put too much time into it."

He felt a brief sense of relief – this was a work-related visit, then. It was a little strange that she came to his apartment to discuss it, but Charlie was coming here, as well – maybe she was meeting Charlie for dinner, after he met with Don. Her attire, with the jewelry and the very high heels, looked right for an evening out. That had to be it – she and Charlie were going out after Charlie's visit – and Amita must be in on the pending conversation. A sudden jolt hit him as he contemplated the fact that they would apparently both be there for news that Charlie wanted to deliver in person – were they about to tell him he was going to be an uncle? A smile rose to his lips at the thought, and suddenly he felt foolish and rude for making her stand in the hallway, and waved a hand at her. "Sure, come on in. Charlie's going to be here soon – hold on just a second while I go hang up this jacket, and I'll be right with you. Have a seat."

Her eyes flashed with an odd expression, but then she smiled and nodded and slid inside, and he strode down the hallway to his bedroom. He hung up the jacket and came out of the room – only to find her standing at the end of the short hallway, blocking the way into the living room. She had set down her purse and her folder, and was standing there, smiling and looking at him expectantly. He smiled at her a little uncertainly, trying to edge between her and the hallway wall to get back out into the living room. The door to his apartment was still slightly ajar. "Do you need something to drink?"

She stood her ground, ignoring the fact that he was trying to get around her. There was no room to get through so he stopped between her and the wall, a little closer to her than normal personal space would allow – a subtle hint that she should back up.

She smiled and batted her eyes, and said, "No thanks. I really didn't come to talk about work. I came to talk about us. We can't deny the chemistry between us anymore."

"I – what?" Don gaped at her, at a loss for words, his stomach doing an odd flip-flop. A revelation hit him, and a strained smile came to his face. "Oh – I get it. This is some kind of joke, right?"

Her eyes flashed and she pouted. "No, it's not a joke. I'm in love you with, Don, and furthermore, I think you're in love with me – you've just been denying it because Charlie and I were together." She sidled closer, and her voice dropped seductively. "Remember our kiss – right after I met you, when you dropped me off at my apartment that night? You can't deny you felt something when we kissed– and I can prove it to you – it's still there."

He stared at her, not quite believing what he was hearing. It was true, he had felt a brief attraction for her when they had first met, but he had backed off quickly when he realized Charlie was obviously interested in her. Over the years, the attraction had been replaced by a brotherly affection and he was certain that kiss had been forgotten – by both of them. She and Charlie were _married_ , for God's sake. A flash of anger that she would do this to Charlie – with anyone – and especially with him, snapped him out of his shocked silence. "Amita, what in the hell are you talking about? You're married, remember? To my _brother_."

"Oh, I won't be, for long," she murmured, stepping even closer, and he shifted back a half step but could go no further; he was up against the hallway wall. "I gave Charlie annulment papers this morning. I'm going to be free, and you're still free – you aren't married yet. It can work."

He felt his gut drop, as if he was on a roller-coaster ride. Where was all this coming from? Annulment papers? _That_ had to be what Charlie was coming to talk to him about – no wonder he had sounded so distressed on the phone this morning. He shot a glance at the clock – Charlie would be here in a half hour. Don needed to get her straightened out before Charlie got there. He looked back at her only to see her rise on her toes, her face level with his. He could see the desire flash in her eyes; smell her perfume. She was way too close. He shifted his foot sideways in preparation for sliding out between her and the wall and his foot hit hers; he looked downward for an instant, distracted.

"One kiss – and then if you can tell me you don't feel anything, I'll go," she murmured, and just as he looked up at her again, she rose higher on her toes and kissed him. He was stunned; his mind frantically groping for a response. His first inclination was to push her away, and he instinctively put his hands on her shoulders, but she was tottering a bit on the high heels she was wearing, and he was sure she would go down if he applied any force. His second inclination was to latch onto her statement – if he didn't respond, if he made it clear he didn't feel anything, she had said she'd go, and right now, he could think of nothing he wanted more. She would have to admit there was nothing there, after his lack of response to her.

He was backed up against the wall, and he applied enough pressure with his hands to keep her body from pressing into his – as much as he could without making her fall, refusing to kiss her back, his body stiff and his lips tight and closed and unyielding, as he tried to get a grip on the situation. It took two shocked seconds before he gathered his reeling senses enough to act. He pushed harder against her shoulders, trying to back her off without pushing her over, but she shifted, pulling closer. He realized that she wasn't getting the message to step back voluntarily and that he was going to have to remove her physically, and so he gripped her arms tightly to keep her from falling, and pushed her away.

* * *

Charlie pulled into the parking lot of Don's apartment at a little before six thirty, over a half hour early, noting with relief that his brother's SUV was already there. The day had seemed an eternity, and he hadn't been sure how bad the traffic would be, so he left campus a little early, both out of prudence and impatience. He hurried through the lot, simultaneously anxious to get his story off his chest, and dreading the telling.

He let himself in through the outside door and shifted through his keys, finding and fingering the key to Don's apartment as he trudged up the apartment building stairs, his rib cage twinging. He had intended to let himself into the apartment if Don was in the shower or didn't hear his knock, but as he drew close to the door, he noticed that it was ajar, just a tiny crack. Don must have just gotten home. Forgoing the knock, Charlie pushed on the door and took a breath, getting ready to call out, but his hand fell away mid-push and his mouth dropped open in shock.

The door opened only a few inches, but it was just enough to silhouette two figures in the entrance of the hallway that led to Don's bedroom. They were in profile, with Don turned just slightly away and Amita slightly toward him. Don's hands were on her shoulders, and Amita was on her tiptoes – and they were kissing.

Charlie staggered backward, lurching as if he'd been punched. They were breaking apart – God, they were going to turn and see him, and he couldn't face them, he had to _leave_ … He whirled around, not seeing straight – he couldn't think of anything but to get away from that soul-searing scene. He stumbled for the stairway, gasping, reeling, hanging on to the railing like a drunk as he hurtled himself down the stairs, not even feeling his injured ribs protest through the haze of shock.

Outside, he ran across the parking lot and flung himself into his Prius and slammed the door as if to keep out demons. Then he bent over in agony, his head on his steering wheel, and a cry of pure pain came from him, as if torn out by force. The situation with Amita was bad enough, but Don – the brother he had loved since he was young – the one he'd always looked up to, whom he had always trusted – _Don_? _Don_ was the reason she'd been so cold, the reason she wanted to annul their marriage? The two people he loved most in the world had gone behind his back and had betrayed him, played him for the trusting fool that he was. They were probably celebrating the fact that she had delivered the annulment papers. He felt as though his entire world was coming down around him; that nothing was as it seemed.

He was too shocked, in too much pain to even cry – he could hardly breathe. His mind was spinning; he was still desperate to get away, away from there, away from _them_. Trembling, he hit start and wrenched the Prius into reverse and then into drive, and swerving wildly, roared out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

* * *

Amita's eyes flickered away toward the apartment doorway and back, and she broke the kiss reluctantly as Don pushed her away. It had been brief, only a second or two – and Don wasn't responding to her. As Don gripped her arms and forced her backwards she came down off her toes, fighting for balance, and Don said, "There's nothing there. Even you can see that." His voice was cold, and he looked angry. He felt guilty, Amita thought, as she regained her feet – he was still trying to fight through the guilt, but he would see her way eventually. Still, she was disappointed. She had hoped to provoke the mutual desire that she knew he had inside him. She could hear footsteps on the hallway stairs through the open apartment door, and saw Don shoot a glance toward the doorway.

"You didn't even try," she pouted.

"Get the hell out," he rasped. "Get out of here – _now_." His voice was low and dark and dangerous, and sent a thrill down to her toes. She loved that side of him.

She wanted to kiss him again, but knew better than to push it. And she knew how to use his guilt to bring matters to a head. She had been turned slightly toward the apartment doorway as they kissed and from her vantage point had seen it swing open out of the corner of her eye, had seen Charlie standing there like a fool, with his mouth open, before he whirled and darted out of sight. There was no need to pretend any more – Charlie knew. Once Don realized that, he would come to his senses and realize that his remorse was misguided. It would mean nothing, because it was too late – Charlie would never forgive them anyway, whether Don felt guilty or not. And once Don understood that, he would know there was no more reason for pretenses. He would come to inevitable conclusion that he might as well have what he wanted. The next time, they would have a _real_ kiss. She turned away and said casually as she picked up her purse and her folder, "You might as well drop the guilt trip. It doesn't matter anymore." She waved a hand at the partially open door. "Charlie was just here – he saw us."

She saw Don's face go white, and she smiled to herself as she sauntered toward the door. She'd made a lot of progress in twenty-four hours. She was a little irritated that Don hadn't responded right away, but she knew she shouldn't show it, and anyway, it wouldn't be long before he would come around. Best to leave now, and let him come to the decision that she knew he would make.

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Don stood there, stunned, just staring, as Amita let herself out and closed the door. Charlie had _seen_ them? "Oh, God," he breathed, and then he was running for his cell phone. "Oh God. _Damn_ it."

He picked up his phone with shaking hands as he ran for the door, frantically hitting Charlie's speed dial number as he sprinted down the stairs, hoping that maybe she was lying, just to rattle him.

He burst out of the building. Amita was already in the parking lot a few feet ahead of him, and she tossed him a knowing smile over her shoulder and kept on moving toward her car. Don ignored her, scanned the parking lot anxiously and glanced down at his phone again – no answer – and then looked back up again, just in time to see Charlie's blue Prius become visible as it roared down an aisle. He started toward it, waving, but it turned away from him and went careening wildly out of the lot, tires squealing.

His shoulders slumped, and he felt the air go out of him. It was true then – Charlie _had_ seen them – and judging by his reaction, it was clear that he hadn't noticed that Don wasn't participating in the act. And why would he? Don asked himself angrily. Who would expect a big bad FBI agent to just stand there and take it, if he didn't want a woman's attention? Don groaned. He should have been rude, he should have pushed her away sooner even if he risked hurting her – because a twisted arm, a sprained ankle, was really much less than she deserved – and was nothing compared to the pain they had just inflicted on his brother.

He turned back toward the building and groped in his pocket for his keys and then realized he had left them upstairs, and his apartment door wide open. Thank goodness the outside door hadn't locked yet – it opened as he yanked on it. He dashed upstairs again, grabbing the keys to his apartment and vehicle and locking his door. He had to get to Charlie and somehow explain himself. He ran back down, barely registering that Amita was pulling out of the lot, and got in his SUV and suddenly, he realized, with full force, the ramifications of what had just transpired. Fear, more intense and more paralyzing than he ever would have imagined, hit him, and he had to sit there for a moment, just trying to get it together. Then he started his SUV with shaking hands, and headed for the Craftsman.

* * *

Charlie pulled his Prius into the driveway of the Craftsman, jammed on the brakes and threw the car into park. His mind was still spinning; he felt nauseated. He was barely keeping himself together; only movement was holding off a complete crash. If he stopped moving, stopped to think, he'd fall completely apart. The same result would hold if he had to face anyone he knew right now – his father, Larry – or worse yet, Amita or Don. He couldn't bear to see either of them – to look in their eyes and see the mockery, the disdain they apparently had for him. He had to go somewhere, and he had to go now.

He ran upstairs, saw that he had a message from his father and ignored it, and quickly, shakily left a phone message for Dean Willis that he was taking leave indefinitely. Then he threw down his cell phone on the bed and began to stuff some clothes in a duffel bag. He wouldn't take the phone with him. He didn't want anyone to try to trace him, and he knew that Don could, if he had the phone. He didn't want to talk to anyone anyway. He took his wallet – he would withdraw some money and pay cash as he went – and just drive, get the hell out of L.A. Away from everything he thought he knew – it was too painful to face. Apparently his life had been nothing but a big lie.

* * *

Alan was home in his apartment when he heard his phone buzz and he reached for it. He had called Charlie earlier, wondering if he and Amita wanted to eat dinner with him tonight. They hadn't been doing that much lately. He never pushed it – if they wanted to go out to eat or eat at home, just the two of them, he understood – they were newlyweds, after all. He didn't want to get in the way. On the other hand, he'd been feeling just a little left out lately, and if they were interested… He glanced at the number – it was Don, not Charlie, and he hit answer.

Don sounded breathless, and as if he was in a vehicle. " _Dad – is Charlie there_?"

"I'm not sure. He wasn't home when I got here, but he might be, by now," Alan said, as he headed for the door of his apartment. It led to the outside, but he had to take only a few steps and he was at the back door of the main house, and he stuck his head around the side of the house and saw Charlie's Prius parked in front. "Yes, he's here," Alan said, as he pushed open the back door to the main house. "I see his car in the driveway. I'm heading into the house now."

" _Okay_ ," said Don. He sounded upset, and Alan frowned. " _Just keep him there, okay? I need to talk to him."_

"Okay," said Alan. "What about?"

" _I, uh – oh, shit, there's an accident up here_."

"Are you okay?" asked Alan anxiously.

" _Yes – I'm just stuck in traffic. Please, just make sure he stays there_."

' _He just got home for the day; why would he leave_?' Alan wondered to himself, but he said, "Okay, I will." The call disconnected. Maybe Don needed some urgent help on a case.

He stepped through the kitchen and into the main living area in time to see Charlie hurrying down from the upstairs with a duffel bag. He looked terrible – pale and drawn, with an expression in his eyes that Alan had never seen before.

"What – where are you going?" he asked in bewilderment. "Why are you leaving?"

Charlie rushed past him with barely a glance. "Ask Don," he managed in a choked voice, and then he was out the door.

Alan hurried to the door and called after him, "Don's on his way here! He said to tell you to wait-," He stopped short as Charlie slammed his car door and threw his vehicle into reverse, his tires spinning in the driveway.

Alan stared after him – what was going on? And where was Amita? Her car wasn't there, and she usually came home from campus with Charlie. He stepped back inside and cast about the room, looking for clues, and finding none, headed for the upstairs. He felt a little odd going up there – the second floor already felt off-limits to him even though he'd lived his adult life in this house – but he was worried enough that he kept going. He stepped into their bedroom, and apart from the lamp that was lying on the floor, the first thing he noticed was that there were hardly any of Amita's clothes left in the open closet, and the suitcases were gone. She had apparently left in a hurry, as well. Was Charlie meeting her somewhere – maybe the airport? Was he hurrying to catch a flight? Charlie consulted for other agencies sometimes. Were they working on some urgent case together?

Feeling a little like a voyeur, he stepped over to Charlie's desk to look for some clue, noticing a sheaf of papers lying on the bed as he did so. He glanced at them – then glanced again and snatched them up, reading the first few paragraphs, an exclamation escaping as he did so. "Oh," he said softly, sorrowfully. "Oh, no."

* * *

When he charged through the front door, Don found his father slumped in an armchair in the living room, one hand hanging limply over the side, clutching some papers. "Where's Charlie?" he exclaimed. "I thought you said he was here."

"He just left," said Alan, sounding a little dazed. "He ran out of here with a duffel bag. I wasn't able to keep him here." He rose slowly. "I asked him what was wrong, but all he said was, ' _Ask Don_.'" He held out the papers, his hand shaking. "He looked extremely upset. I went upstairs and found these on his bed – and it looks like Amita has moved out, at least partially. Most of her clothes were gone."

Don took the papers and scanned the first page, his chest still heaving from emotion, from his dash inside. Annulment papers – so Amita had been telling the truth.

Alan said, "What did he mean when he said to 'ask you'? Did you know this was going on? Do you know where he went?"

"No – and no," said Don heavily, as he set the papers down on a side table. He could feel dread start to creep up his insides. "It's worse even than this, Dad. We have to find him."

Alan grimaced – he looked older, his shoulders slumped with grief and disappointment. "How can things be worse than this?"

Don swallowed; suddenly he couldn't talk – he couldn't say it.

"What?" Alan demanded fearfully, scanning his face. He frowned. "You have lipstick on your mouth."

Don's hand flew to his lips, and he pulled at them as if he would tear them off, rubbing off the offending substance. The thought that Amita had left it there sickened him. "Charlie thinks he saw Amita and me kissing," Don choked out.

Alan paled, gaping at him. " _Thinks_ he saw?"

Don took a breath. He needed to start at the beginning if he was going to have any chance of explaining this, and have his father ever speak to him again. "Charlie called me this morning – he sounded very upset and asked if he could come over tonight and talk. I tried to ask him what he wanted to talk about, but he said he wanted to wait until tonight. He tried to get me to go out with him last night when he was at the office, but I had already promised Robin I'd go out with her and her sister. Charlie looked a little down when I said I couldn't go last night, but not too upset – but this morning when he called, he sounded really bad. I told him to come over at seven this evening."

His father was standing there, anxiously hanging on every word. God, this was hard. Don took a breath. "I got home at about quarter after six, and I was only in the apartment a few minutes when I heard a knock. I thought it was Charlie, there early, but when I went to the door, it was Amita. She said she had a project she'd been working on that she wanted me to look at. It seemed a little odd that she would show up there, but I thought maybe she was meeting Charlie there. I invited her in, told her to have a seat and went to hang up my jacket."

"When I came out, she was standing at the end of the hallway, blocking the way to the living room, just staring at me and smiling. The whole thing was just – weird. I asked her if she wanted something to drink and tried to get around her, but she wouldn't budge. Then she said that she was in love with me, and knew I felt it, too."

Alan groaned, and ran a hand down his face. It stopped over his mouth, and he left it there and just stared, waiting for Don to go on.

Don swallowed and continued. "I was shocked, but I was pissed, too. I reminded her that she was married – to my brother. Then she said it was over between them – that she had given him annulment papers this morning." Alan dropped his hand with another groan, and Don stopped for a moment, and looked at him miserably. "Dad, I kissed her once – years ago, just a week or two after I'd first met her." He saw his father's face change, saw anger start to join the distress there, and he hurried on. "She and Charlie weren't going out yet, and I never did ask her out. I was mildly attracted to her back then, but completely gave up on that idea as soon I knew they were interested in each other. It's been so long – I thought it had been forgotten by both of us, but apparently, she's fixated on that kiss. She told me tonight that if we kissed again, I'd remember the first one – remember the feelings I had for her. Then, before I could act, she kissed me."

Alan looked at him with shock and abhorrence. "And you let her?!"

"I know," Don groaned. "I was stunned – the whole thing completely threw me. I didn't expect it. She was on her toes in these high heels – my gut reaction was to push her away, but I was afraid she'd go down and get hurt. So I didn't push back right away, but I didn't kiss her back." He ran a hand down his face. "It happened so fast, and for just a split second I thought maybe if she realized that I wasn't returning the kiss and there was nothing there, she'd drop her nonsense, and go back to Charlie. So I hesitated."

Alan stepped back, his legs wobbling a little, and dropped back into his armchair. His voice was hoarse. "And Charlie saw you."

Don suddenly felt like he needed to sit down himself, and he stepped to the sofa and sat heavily. He could feel his throat tighten. "Yes. He must have gotten there early. I didn't hear him come in – the apartment door was slightly open and he must have pushed it open further, and he saw us. I didn't know he was there – I was facing away from the door a little bit, but Amita was turned toward it, and she saw him." His face darkened, remembering her smug expression. "She wouldn't quit, so I finally grabbed her arms to make sure she didn't fall, and pushed her away. I told her to get the hell out, and then she told me that Charlie had just been there and had seen us – I didn't believe her, but then I ran down to the parking lot after she said that, and he was already in his car, leaving – tearing out of the lot. He had to have seen us, and must not have heard any of the conversation beforehand or afterward – to him it must have looked like I -," he broke off, and put his face in his hands.

Alan was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low, and angry. "I know you were shocked, but you still let her do it – even if it only was a few seconds. You didn't see it coming, when she was that close to you? And on top of everything – you knew Charlie was coming to see you, and you _risked_ letting her do that?"

Don raised his head, his hands spread, imploringly. "I know – but it happened so quickly, and he wasn't supposed to be there for another half hour. Not that I thought that out – him coming there didn't even enter my mind at that point. I was so shocked; I didn't know what to do. All I could think of was getting her mind off that fantasy and getting her out of there. It was over almost as soon as it started, and then I told her that it should be obvious to her that there was nothing there, and to get the hell out of my place. It was literally _seconds_ \- Charlie must have come up the stairs and pushed open the door at exactly the wrong moment." He shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't know where all this came from, Dad. I have no idea why she thinks there is something there."

Alan eyed him. "You haven't been giving her the wrong idea when you talk to her, have you? You have a tendency to turn on the charm when you talk to the ladies."

Don shook his head and shrugged, rubbed his face again. "I don't know. Maybe I do without realizing it, but I don't think I've been acting any differently around her than I have for years, and all of a sudden now she thinks I have feelings for her? And even if she thought that, she starts annulment papers for their marriage before she even comes to see me about it? Who does that? I don't understand any of it. And Charlie never said they were having problems – all he said was that he wanted to talk to me, and that was just yesterday. Those annulment papers this morning must have shocked him just as much as this shocked me – because he wasn't that upset last evening at the office. It's like all of this is coming out nowhere."

"Don, you need to find him." Alan's face was tight with worry. "Amita doing this is bad enough – but with you? He idolizes you." His voice shook. "God knows what his state of mind is."

Alan was giving voice to Don's own misgivings, and he could feel anxiety starting to spiral again. He nodded, and rose. "I'm going downtown right now – I'm going to call in some favors and get a trace put on his phone."

Alan stood, shaking his head, his lips tight. "You won't get much farther than here. He left his phone. It was lying on his bed upstairs."

Don felt his anxiety start to burgeon into fear. Charlie didn't want to be found, then. If he did something drastic… His father looked just as frightened, and Don tried to calm them both. "I'll get a BOLO out on his vehicle then. I'll pull every string we've got." He looked at his father's anguished face. "I'm going to fix this, Dad."

His father didn't respond at first, and then just gave a short tired nod. It was a brief gesture, but it spoke volumes – fear and sorrow for Charlie, and for Don, if not anger, at least disappointment. Don couldn't bear to face him anymore, and he turned and strode out to his vehicle, praying that his father could find some hope in his parting promise. His own words, however, gave him no comfort. Even if he found Charlie before he did anything rash, he wasn't sure he could fix this.

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. They are truly appreciated._

Chapter 6

Charlie, for once in his life, didn't analyze. He didn't try to mathematically figure the shortest route to the least likely spot to be found, or logically derive the best course to travel if he didn't want to be tracked. He just drove – getting all the way to Santa Clarita before he remembered to stop for money. He pulled off and since he didn't have his phone, he spent twenty minutes driving around town before he found a branch of his bank, and went in and withdrew five thousand dollars. No rhyme or reason to the amount, other than it was the maximum daily withdrawal amount. He had no idea how long he would be gone or where he would go, but he knew he needed something to pay for a place to stay, eventually, when he stopped running. And alcohol. Lots of it – he needed something to numb the pain.

There was a liquor store on his way back to the highway ramp, and he stopped there. He wasn't much of a drinker and his experience with hard alcohol was minimal, but he knew he wanted enough to last for however long he was gone. Or at least a decade – whichever came first. He found himself in front of the bourbon whisky and stared numbly at the selection, then bent over and picked up a case with six large bottles in it, each of them double the size of a regular bottle, stifling a groan as his hurt ribs complained. He would take out the guesswork as to how much to buy, and just take the whole case. He shuffled over to the counter and plunked the box down with a thud.

The cashier, a stocky man of about forty-five with red hair going gray, said pleasantly, "ID, please."

Charlie stared at him, reluctant to give up his identity. Couldn't the guy see he was over thirty? Then he shrugged mentally. Don would trace him to Santa Clarita anyway – he'd just made a withdrawal from the bank. He wasn't thinking logically. He handed over his driver's license, and the man glanced at it. "Wow, you're older than you look," he said. "I would have put you in college. Having a party, huh?"

Charlie didn't respond. All he could think of was that Don and Amita were apparently celebrating tonight – having their own party. Maybe he was worrying about being traced for nothing. Maybe Don had no idea of trying to find him. Maybe he would be happy to have him gone. He knew Amita would be. He felt nauseated. Might as well use his credit card, too, and save his cash. If Don did trace him, it would be as far as Santa Clarita, and no further.

The man swiped his card for him, frowning at Charlie's bleak expression and his lack of response. "You drink this stuff much?"

Charlie shook his head. The man's frown deepened, and he glanced around and lowered his voice. "Look," he peeked at the ID, "Charles, it's none of my business, but you don't look too happy. Just so you know, you have enough here to drown your sorrows for a couple of months. Each of these bottles is roughly a half gallon – a quarter of _one_ of them would put someone your size in the hospital, depending on how fast you drank it. Don't go getting yourself sick, or you'll make me feel bad for selling this to you. And don't be drinking on the road." He handed the credit card and the ID back to him as Charlie signed for the purchase. "Good luck, buddy."

Charlie put his cards in his pocket and picked up the case with a vague nod, and shuffled back out to his car. The extra weight pulled on his injured rib cage and he knew he needed to set it down, and soon, but at the car, in spite of the pain, he hesitated just for a moment in indecision. He could definitely use a shot right now – but the man was watching him out of the window, and he also knew he needed to put some miles between himself and L.A. before he started drinking, because once he started he wouldn't stop, so he popped the trunk and put the case inside. Then he got into the car, got back on the highway, and started driving again.

He found himself on Interstate 5 going north, and drove like a zombie for hours, up past Bakersfield and onward, trying to keep his mind on the road and off of the awful vision of Don and Amita, together. It was after dark and he was just an hour or so south of San Francisco when a shred of reason kicked in and he decided he needed to get off the major highway on the chance, however remote, that anyone was looking for him. He was driving mechanically; he was numb and he didn't feel tired – he hurt too much to sleep, but he knew he would need to rest at some point. He glanced at the dashboard clock; it was getting late, after eleven. A sign for Route 152 came up, and he got off on it and haphazardly went west. He drove along it, looking for a hotel with a vacancy.

Much of that road was desolate until he got to the town of Watsonville. It was a beach town and every hotel there, even the nondescript sleazy looking little motels, were booked. He got off the highway, driving randomly through town and then out of it, down Beach Road, which then turned and went up the coast, becoming San Andreas Road. Buildings became sparse. He could see the waters of Monterey Bay to his left, molten silver in the midnight moonlight.

The road was becoming wild and steep. It was not an area where it was easy to build a hotel, or in fact, a building of any kind, and he was getting ready to turn back when he almost passed the little bed-and-breakfast that sat on the cliff-side, nearly hidden behind overgrown hedges. The building looked like an older house; the landscaping was overgrown in front and there was only a small light outside the hedges to illuminate the plain painted 'Vacancy' sign that hung from the light post. For a moment he wondered if it was even inhabited, but he could see a faint light in a front window, winking through the dense growth along the road.

He found a driveway and pulled his car in behind the hedges – there was only enough level ground for five parking spots, and there was a car in one of them. Then slowly, stiffly, painfully, he climbed out of the Prius and made his way toward the house.

Now off the road and behind the hedges, he could see that the house was truly built into the cliff – the front of it faced the road and was only a single story high, but the back, which faced the ocean, appeared to be at least three stories, and the building hugged the cliff on the way down. He could see a narrow path winding down among the rocks on the hillside to a sliver of beach far below, and beyond it spread the waters of Monterey Bay and then the Pacific, gleaming and shimmering in the moonlight. It was craggy, and desolate, and remote.

The front door was locked, but through the window he could see a reception desk illuminated by a night light, and there was a note on the door that he could make out under the dim porch light. _For Desk Service After Midnight, Please Ring Buzzer_ , it said, and he pressed the old fashioned doorbell. There was a slight buzzing sound over his head, and he looked up to see a small camera installed under the porch roof, directed at him. High tech, newly installed. He was being observed.

A moment later, through the window he saw a door behind the desk open and a slim woman of about thirty-five step out into the office. She was wearing jeans and a jacket that she had apparently thrown on over her pajamas, and she came around the desk and opened the front door, the chain still on, eyeing Charlie warily.

"I'm sorry, it's late," said Charlie. "Do you have any vacancies?"

She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. "Yes – I just opened this week," she said. "I have three single floor suites – they all have ocean views."

"How much?"

"How long?"

Charlie stared at her – then sighed and shrugged. "I don't know. At least a week or two…"

Her brow furrowed slightly. She had long wavy brown hair – in the dim light it looked dark, and reminded him of Amita's. He swallowed; his eyes suddenly stinging.

"I charge $1500 to $2000 per week, depending on the suite, and $3500-$4000 per month."

"I'll start with a week," said Charlie. He really had no idea how long he would be there, and he didn't care at the moment about the price. His voice was husky and he cleared his throat. "The cheapest one is fine. I can pay cash."

She nodded, briskly, and smiled at him. "It's a deal." She closed the door to remove the chain, then opened it wide. "The rooms are built one on top of the other – each has a terrace that looks out over the water. You get to the top two rooms through front of the house– for the bottom room, you have to go down the path next to the house, and come in the back way – it has its own entrance. That's why it's the cheapest one – you have to lug your stuff up and down the hill."

Above all, Charlie wanted privacy. The bottom room would be good.

She moved around the desk. "I have a little cart, but if you have a lot of stuff, you may need to make a couple of trips."

The money changed hands and she grabbed a key from the desk, and led him outside, down the path. It was narrow and steep, and he stumbled once or twice. Exhaustion was setting in.

They came around the edge of the building onto a terrace, and she unlocked the door for him and showed him inside, flicking on a light that illuminated a small kitchen to their left and a living room to their right. The suite included two bedrooms, a small living room that looked out over the terrace and the view – that wall was nearly all glass – a bathroom and the kitchen. The furniture was spare, sleek and modern, but tasteful, and the room had obviously been recently renovated.

She pointed to a phone on an end table in the living room. "If you hit #1, you'll get the front desk," she said. She pointed to a cart that sat outside on the veranda. "That's the cart for your luggage. I have breakfast available every morning from seven until ten – nothing too fancy during the week – cereal, fruit, homemade muffins, that kind of thing. With coffee and juice. I do a cooked breakfast on weekends. Maid service is weekly, but you can get fresh towels at the front desk if you need them. Any questions?"

After Charlie assured her that he had no questions – he was desperate to be alone – she nodded and handed him the key. "My name is Mary, if you need anything."

He waited until she left, then he went out and pulled the cart up the hill to his car. The box of whiskey, his computer bag and his duffel bag fit into the cart with no issue, and he carefully guided it back down the steep path. His ribs were throbbing. He brought his things inside, found a glass in the kitchen, opened a bottle of whiskey and poured the tumbler nearly half full. He downed it with a grimace, choking a little; then poured another, and grabbing the bottle and his glass went and sat in the living room. It was only illuminated dimly by the light from the kitchen, and he stared out of the huge picture window at the moon and the water. It was a beautiful scene, but to Charlie, the black rocks and water and pale light of the moon seemed cold and bleak and unforgiving. The veranda had a better view, but he didn't care if he had a view or not, and he felt, deep inside, that it was safer in here. Out on the veranda, those hard dark rocks and those jagged cliffs were closer, separated from him only by a rail that would be easy to climb, and after a few drinks, might seem too inviting…

He closed his eyes and downed the second tumbler, grimacing and choking again. He wasn't sure how many glasses he would need, but he would drink as many as it took to forget.

After the third glass, he started to cry.

* * *

Amita drove straight to Petey's after she'd left Don's apartment. The happy giddy feeling from earlier that day had started to wane a bit, and the old familiar feeling of anxiety and irritation was starting to make itself felt. She _hated_ that feeling – it was wearing, and after a while it started to make her angry. She was trying to do everything she could to make it leave – to be happy again. She'd taken a drastic step – was it enough to get her what she wanted? She had just seen Don – had _kissed_ Don, and he had let her, she reminded herself, if only for a second or two. He wouldn't have allowed it if he didn't feel something – maybe he was conflicted, to be sure, but he had to feel _somethin_ g to allow the kiss to happen. He was too worried about what Charlie would think, she thought, with a twinge of irritation. Charlie was the one thing standing between them. Just the thought of him made her anger and irritation increase, made her lip curl in disgust. What had she ever seen in him?

At Petey's she got herself a beer and walked to the room with the pool tables in the back of the building, her group's habitual hangout. She had guessed that Cassandra would tell the others about Amita's flight from the Craftsman the night before and leaving the annulment papers, and she was right. They plied her with questions, and Amita told them that she'd already found an apartment and that she would try to get her things from the Craftsman the day after next. Derrick was listening in, and he said, "I've got a truck. I can take off work that day and help you move."

"I think Joey is off that day, too," said Cassandra with a glance at her boyfriend, over at the pool table. "He can help out – I'll ask him."

"So," said Becca, looking at Amita, "Do you think he'll sign the papers? What if he doesn't?" She had a speculating look on her face, and her questions seemed insincere – as if she wasn't really on Amita's side, as if she were judging. She was starting to irritate Amita, just a little.

"I don't know," said Amita, tightly. "It will have to go to court, I guess. I hope he doesn't try to fight it."

Becca nodded, carefully keeping her expression neutral, and Amita wondered if Cassandra had told the girls about Don. Well, so what if she had? Amita was going to end up with him anyway. Who cared if they knew? One thing was obvious, Cassandra hadn't told Derrick about him. Derrick was hanging around Amita even more than usual – probably hopeful now that he knew that the end to her marriage was in sight.

The night seemed to drag, and Amita's mood dragged with it. The actions of the day or two before – delivering the papers, leaving Charlie and the Craftsman, letting Don know how she felt – had been energizing, liberating. It had felt so good to be making positive strides. But now she was stuck - waiting. Waiting for Charlie to sign papers, waiting for Don to come to his senses. She knew instinctively that she had to give Don some time to come to grips with the idea before she could approach him again. He would worry about his brother at first, but eventually he would come to see that this had been inevitable, and they could move on. Charlie might even accept the fact – he was such a wimp, and idolized his brother so much that maybe he would even swallow his pride. He too, might realize it was best to not fight fate – although he had become such a source of irritation these days, Amita was almost hoping he'd never speak to them again. Then they wouldn't have to deal with him. He'd be effectively out of their lives. On the other hand, if he put up a fight and didn't sign the papers, he could drag things out…

As night fell, she was standing pensively by the back door to the bar, which opened out into a small paved lot, a cigarette in her hand. The space wasn't used for parking; it was kept empty because the delivery and sanitation trucks needed the room to maneuver after they pulled in. Its only access was from an alley that ran along the side of Petey's, which led out to the front street and on back to a parking lot, back behind a tall wooden fence. The delivery lot was bare and ugly, hemmed in by the back fence and other buildings and punctuated by a dumpster and a bare security light, so she wasn't there for the view, but she needed fresh air, and space. It was also a convenient spot to slip out and smoke a little pot, as most of the inhabitants of the back room were wont to do. The bar owner didn't seem to care – he could see them back there by virtue of the small camera in the corner of the lot – as long as there was no fighting, and they weren't obvious about it. They were careful – they lit up cigarettes they had bought from him inside, pretending to be out there for a legal smoke, and surreptitiously slipped the joint back and forth, turning away from the camera when they took a drag.

There were a couple of bar regulars out there now, discreetly standing over by the corner where the alley turned to go out to the street, and the smell of pot wafted through the air. Amita had even started to join her group back there, a couple of nights ago. The pot, like the beer and the cigarettes that she was starting to become attached to, reminded her of her younger, wilder days. Happier days. Although she reminded herself, once she and Don were together, she would stop – it wouldn't do for the wife of an FBI agent to smoke pot. And there would be no temptation, anyway, because she wouldn't be hanging out here with these people, then. She would be with Don.

Derrick sidled up to her, leaning on his pool cue, and murmured, "How's it going?"

Amita sighed. "I don't know. I'm not sure. I'm worried about what Charlie will do."

Derrick swayed a little closer to her – he'd obviously been drinking a little more than usual. "I want you to know I'm here for you – whatever you need," he said earnestly, slurring a little, and then his expression darkened. "Including taking care of that controlling little bastard." He paused, and his voice dropped even further, conspiratorially. "I killed a man once," he confided, with a small dark smile. "Got away with it, too. I can take care of stuff, if you get what I mean."

Amita's eyes widened. "I don't think that will be necessary."

He shrugged. "Maybe not, but if it is, just say the word. I'll take care of it." He moved back to the pool table, and she stared after him, her mouth open. Her head was buzzing, and a vision of Charlie suddenly materialized, smiling at her, his beautiful dark eyes only on her, looking the way he used to look, and it made her remember... It was so real, she almost reached out to caress his curls.

And just for a moment, she thought to herself, " _What is happening here? This is crazy, isn't it_?" Then she shook herself and took another drag of her cigarette, and turned back to the parking lot.

End, Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Dim gray light was starting to come up over Los Angeles, and Don rubbed his face and stared blearily out of the FBI office window. It was nearly six a.m., and he was the only one there.

The evening before, after he'd left the Craftsman he had come straight in to the office. One of the afternoon-shift techs was still there, and Don had him start a scan for hits from Charlie's credit and bank cards, and told him to leave notes for the day turn tech when he left at midnight. He'd also called LAPD Chief Sam Winston at home, and asked him to put out a BOLO for Charlie's car. He was stingy on details – just that Charlie was having marital difficulties and had fled L.A. and that they were worried about his state of mind. Moments later the BOLO was in the system – Sam had his people code it as a potential suicide to make sure it got the attention it needed. The code put a name to the unspoken fear in Don's mind, and he spent the next several hours waiting for news. Finally at about one in the morning, he suspected that Charlie had stopped to rest somewhere and there wouldn't be much chance of anything coming in – although he had left instructions for LAPD or the CHP to reach him on his cell phone, if anyone spotted him. He stopped in at the lab to see if the afternoon tech was still there, but he'd gone when his shift was up, at midnight. So Don had gone home and tried to sleep for four hours, tossing and turning. Finally he had gotten up, showered, shaved, and dressed, and come right back in, somehow hoping for news, even though he knew they would have called him on his cell phone if they had found anything.

He felt physically ill, sick to his stomach, and he dragged into the break area and started a pot of coffee, planting both hands on the counter while it brewed, leaning wearily on his arms. As soon as he talked to his boss – thankfully the man usually got in early – Don was going to swing by Robin's apartment and tell her what happened. She was taking the day off today to continue to shop for wedding dresses with her sister, so at least she didn't need to go into the office right after she got the news. He was dreading the conversation - he could only hope that she'd believe his story and give him the benefit of the doubt, or he might be losing a wife, as well as a brother.

He shook his head, still pondering the surreal set of events. Amita had completely floored him – he would never in a million years have seen that coming from her. He was sure she had been head over heels in love with Charlie while they were dating, especially as they got more serious. What in the hell had happened? The whole thing was unfathomable.

He drank a cup of coffee, and at about seven a.m., as some of the earlier starters were streaming in, he went up one floor to see his boss – Assistant Director Wright. He met him as he was coming in, just unlocking his office door. Usually, office protocol demanded that a person let someone coming in have a few minutes to get settled – turn on their computer, grab a cup of coffee – before they approached. Don's presence there – standing, waiting until Wright unlocked the door, spoke volumes.

Wright picked up on the urgency; he looked at Don with concern and waved him inside and over to his desk. The door swung shut behind them. "Yes, Agent, what is it?"

Don said, "Sir, I have an issue – a family issue. I have to tell you that I used the Bureau's card search tracking system last night, and I called in a favor for a BOLO from LADP, and LAPD also put it into the CHP system. I plan on continuing to use those resources today, with your permission."

It didn't cost the Bureau much for an automated card search, and the BOLO costs were also relatively minimal for the other two agencies, so it wasn't as though he was asking for a lot, but Don still felt relief when Wright said, "It's not a problem, agent. I trust your judgment. What's wrong – can I help in any way?"

Don took a deep breath. There was no way in hell anyone outside of family (and just a very few others) were going to get the ugly details. He left out the worst of it. "Charlie's wife delivered annulment papers to him yesterday. I'm sure he wasn't expecting them, and he took off – he's disappeared. We're worried about his state of mind."

Wright's face darkened with concern. "That's terrible – they were married less than a year ago, right? I had seen them at the office together not too long ago – they seemed so happy – what happened?"

"I wish I knew," said Don heavily. "I just wanted to let you know – and that I may take some time off today and go try to find him. I'm hoping it's a false alarm and he'll show up – but we're worried."

"No problem – do what you need to do."

"I'll put David in charge while I'm gone," said Don. "I'm going to let him and Colby know what's going on – I'd like to keep it quiet, otherwise."

Wright nodded. "Certainly. Let me know what happens."

Don nodded, and let himself out.

He left the office at seven-fifteen and headed for Robin's apartment. He felt like he was a kid getting ready to jump off the high diving board for the first time as he walked down the hallway – dreading the jump, but knowing he had to do it sometime, and sooner was better than later. He had sent her a text that said he was coming over and had to speak to her privately, and so she was expecting him when she opened the door, a question in her eyes.

"Ree is out at the gym," she said. "She wanted to get a workout in before we went out shopping today." She led him over to a sofa, and sat, leaving room for him. "What's going on?"

He sat next to her. "You know I love you, right?"

Robin's brow furrowed. "Of course I do."

"Okay," he said. "Something happened yesterday – it was weird and unexpected, and got out of control in a hurry." He took a deep breath and jumped off the dive – head first. He told her everything – about Amita's visit, her strange remarks, the kiss, the fact that Charlie had seen them. Throughout the story, she kept her eyes carefully on his, her expression neutral, except for biting her lip at the description of the kiss and displaying a worried expression when he told her about Charlie. He ended with a plea for forgiveness, and when he was done, she was silent and he scanned her face anxiously, looking for a clue. Was he still in, or out? _God, this couldn't end their relationship – it couldn't_. His stomach knotted. _Please, Robin, please…_

"I believe you," she said finally. "Amita was acting strangely at dinner last Saturday, and I heard her make a really insensitive comment to Charlie when we were walking in. I can still see the look on his face – he looked hurt and bewildered, and then he turned red to the roots of his hair, and tried to smile and pretend it was a joke. She kind of shocked me. And then at dinner she ignored both me and Charlie – was actually very rude – and kept staring at you. The whole thing was so strange. I don't think you really noticed because her comments to you were friendly, and Charlie – well Charlie noticed, but I got the impression that he was used to it somehow – confused and a little upset by it, but it seemed like he just accepted it – like he didn't know what else to do. It didn't seem like it was just a fight, because it was one-sided – he didn't seem angry at _her_. And then she was rude to me too, in addition to him. And it wasn't that she was just in a bad mood, either, because she was civil, even friendly, when she talked to you. It was a weird situation."

She looked at him, her eyes holding his. "Am I happy that you let her kiss you? No. And a few years back, this would have been a problem. The old Don didn't commit, and was more than happy to play the field. But you've changed over the years, which is why I said yes to you when you asked me to marry you. I know you're committed to us, and I can see how badly you feel about this. And I get how strangely Amita is acting, and thanks to your text, I got to prepare myself a little. After that text, I honestly expected something worse – I wasn't sure what, but it sounded bad."

Don hung his head. "It _is_ bad," he mumbled.

Incredibly, she managed a smile. "I know you're not cheating on me, Don – you don't have time. You're either at work or with me - and that has been the case almost every night since we've been engaged. It's not your words, but your actions, that have let me know how you feel. And I'm glad you came over right away and told me what was going on."

Unexpectedly, and to his mortification, Don felt tears come to his eyes. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, and he reached for her and hugged her, hard, desperately. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised, he thought to himself. That calm, analytical, thoughtful, measured response was so completely Robin. But he'd been on the wrong side of the analysis years before with her, and he was terrified of going back, and damned grateful that she hadn't sent him there, because back then, she had dumped him. She would have been justified had she decided to do that now.

Finally, they sat back, and she reached out and ran a hand through his hair, sympathetically. "I think right now, you need to focus on Charlie. I can tell that you're pretty worried about him, and I am too. Go do what you do – go find him. I'll be fine – I'm still going out today with Ree, just like we'd planned. Just send me a text or call me once in a while today and tell me how it's going."

"Okay, I will," he said. "Thank you." And he kissed her, gently, and he was so very, very grateful that she kissed him back.

* * *

Charlie stirred and groaned; he was lying on a hard surface, twisted, and his neck and especially his ribcage protested. He managed to separate his eyelids and realized he was lying on a bathroom floor in a strange contorted pose, sandwiched between the wall and the toilet. He dimly remembered being sick; his head throbbed and he frowned, trying to remember how he'd gotten there as he struggled to sit up.

As soon as he was sitting upright and got a look out the bathroom door at the living room he realized where he was, and the memories of the evening before came flooding back, hitting him like a freight train. He gasped involuntarily, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. That was a mistake – the image of Don and Amita, standing there, kissing, seemed to be burned on the back of his eyelids, and he opened them quickly.

After two attempts, he managed to pull himself to his feet and staggered out into the living room. There was a partially full glass of bourbon sitting on the end table next to the sofa, and he grabbed it and took a swallow, grimacing as the liquid burned down his throat. He half expected it to come right back up but it stayed down, and he took another swallow. He put the glass down and, swaying, squinted out the huge window at the early morning sun glinting on the water. He was probably still drunk, he decided, but not drunk enough.

* * *

Don got back to the office at eight, and the workday was in full swing. He had another hurdle in front of him, and decided that he was going to limit any further information to just Colby Granger and David Sinclair. He liked Nikki Betancourt well enough and she was solid member of his team, but she hadn't been there as long and he didn't know her as well. She had a tough, street-smart demeanor that made him suspect that she wouldn't take too kindly to men who cheated – and even if he wasn't really a cheater, he still felt like one, and he was well aware he might look like one to her. It was going to be bad enough to admit to what had happened to David and Colby. And since he was limiting it to just the two of them, he was going for full disclosure. They both knew Charlie well – they'd all worked together for years, now, and Colby had been a confidant for Charlie in the past. Don was hoping that once he'd found him if Charlie refused to speak to him, that maybe either David or Colby might be a good go-between. So as painful and embarrassing as it would be to tell them, he figured it might be the best course of action.

He pulled them down the hall into a small conference room. It wasn't used much because it only seated a half dozen people and it was out of the way. They already knew something was up because of the venue and the fact that he'd only called in the two of them, and their expressions were somber and watchful.

Don sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat. "I ran into an issue yesterday evening – it's a family matter. I already talked to Wright and he gave me the go ahead to take some leave. The rest of the office can just think I'm taking a couple of vacation days. While I'm off, David, you're in charge – Colby, you're second in charge if the situation warrants it."

They nodded, a question in their eyes, and Don shook his head. "I'm not sure how to say this," he said, but then he did, going through the details again.

When he got to the part where Amita had told him that Charlie had seen them, David uttered a low uncharacteristic swear word, and Colby gasped and said, "Oh, man. He _saw_ you? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Don grimly. "I realized I couldn't trust anything she said, so I ran downstairs to check for myself – he was already in his car and was peeling out of the parking lot. I didn't think you could even make a Prius' tires squeal, but he did. He rushed home and packed a bag – he couldn't have been there more than a few minutes, because I was almost right behind him – and then he ran out. My dad was there. He said he looked pretty upset. I'm sure Charlie doesn't realize that it was one-sided." He paused, and sighed.

"We haven't heard from him since. He didn't take his phone, so the best I could do was start a card trace and put a BOLO out on his vehicle. I'm going to check in with the tech on the card trace after we get done here, and if I get any information I'm going to hit the road and start heading that general direction. Maybe a BOLO sighting will come in, and I'll be that much closer to him when it does."

He could see the dismay on their faces, and David said, "Man, I can't believe it. They seemed like the perfect couple. What in the heck got into her?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Don, grimly. He looked at them. "You guys know me – you've seen Amita at the office. Be honest with me – have you ever thought it looked like I was flirting with her? Did I give her the wrong impression?"

They both looked at each other and shook their heads. "Never," said Colby. "Although come to think of it, a few weeks ago when she was here it kind of looked like she was hitting on _you_. We were setting up for a meeting and she was out by your desk, and it looked like she just kept getting closer and you kept backing up. I think Charlie noticed it too – he kept looking out the door at both of you, and was kind of distracted when he was setting up his computer. In fact, that's why I noticed – I looked out the door to see what he was looking at."

Don winced. He remembered that encounter now that Colby mentioned it, remembered Amita invading his personal space, and that he'd side-stepped her with a pat on the arm and escaped to the conference room. Don remembered also that he'd smiled at her, teased her a bit – but he hadn't meant anything by it. Had she read something into the encounter? He thought about his father's assertion that he turned on the charm when he talked to women. Had he led her on unintentionally? And more importantly, how had that exchange looked to Charlie? Colby had picked up on the fact that it was Amita who was trying to close the distance between them, but she was Charlie's wife – to say nothing of the fact that Charlie wasn't gifted at picking up social nuances – he very well might have perceived it differently. If Charlie thought that they had been flirting with each other, it might be that much harder to convince him that nothing was going on – that Don hadn't encouraged her behavior.

He sighed. "Okay – I guess that's it – except that if Charlie tries to contact one of you, please let me know immediately."

After the meeting, Don found out from the tech that there was a hit at a branch of Charlie's bank, and another on his credit card, both in Santa Clarita. Charlie had gone north then, and so Don left the office and he headed north, too, stopping by Cal Sci on the way and briefly meeting with Larry. He'd filled Larry in, as well; as Charlie's best friend, it was conceivable that Charlie might try to contact him, or maybe even had before he left.

Larry hadn't been contacted and was shocked at the news, but he confirmed that he'd found out that morning that Charlie had left a message for Dean Willis the evening before, and had called off work, indefinitely. Amita had come in that day – did Don want to talk to her?

"Not in a million years," muttered Don after he had politely declined and walked away. He had asked Larry to let him know if Charlie got in touch with him, and now, Don was heading to Santa Clarita.

He had spent the last several hours letting his father, his fiancé, his two closest co-workers, and Charlie's best friend know what an ass he was, but he knew that thankfully they all understood that he hadn't initiated the encounter, and at worst, in a moment of shock, he'd been guilty only of bad judgment by not stopping her before she acted. The only person who didn't know that was Charlie – and he was the one who needed to hear it the most.

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Many thanks to all for your reviews. I read each and every one of them. For those of you not familiar with how I post, I never start posting until the story is complete, or very nearly so. I don't know about you, but I hate waiting weeks for a next chapter, or starting to read a story that never gets finished. However, my stories are never complete until you have your say. Your comments invariably end up as tweaks to the story, and this chapter is no exception. Thanks again._

Chapter 8

Don made it up to Santa Clarita in less than an hour, and first visited the bank branch that Charlie had withdrawn money from. A normal person, even a family member, would not have been given any information, but an FBI officer armed with the withdrawal information from the tracking system got more cooperation. Don actually was allowed to speak to the teller who had handled the request. She remembered Charlie when he showed her a photo and confirmed the withdrawal, but that was all. No, Charlie hadn't said anything to indicate where he might be going, and no, he hadn't said anything to indicate why he needed five thousand dollars.

Don stopped next at the liquor store, where they'd gotten a credit card hit. Considering the amount of the purchase – nearly one hundred and eighty dollars - Don had hoped that maybe the store sold something else; food or gas, for example. He was perturbed to see that it was only a liquor store and didn't sell much else. The clerk's comments didn't do much to alleviate his anxiety.

"Oh, yeah, I remember him," he said a little grimly. "I talked to him. He seemed pretty down, and he had a case full of bourbon. I warned him about trying to drink that much alcohol –I was straight up with him. I told him that anything more than a quarter of one those bottles at one time would land him in the hospital, or worse. Don't tell me that's what happened."

"No – not that I know of," said Don, although he made a mental note to check the all the hospital registries in the state of California. "He's my brother and I know he's upset, and I'm just trying to find him. He didn't say where he was headed, after here?"

"No," said the clerk, shaking his head. "He actually didn't say much of anything at all. He looked kind of out-of-it – shell-shocked."

Don thanked him and walked out to his SUV. Just a block or two down the road was the exit ramp for I-5, and he stood there for a moment staring at the signs. Santa Clarita was a half hour north of Pasadena – had Charlie come up here and visited the bank and the liquor store just to throw them off, and then headed south? Or had he kept on going north? Charlie had helped them more than once with an analysis to track down a fleeing criminal. He was brilliant and understood the search patterns – he was easily capable of throwing them off his trail, if he didn't want to be found. On the other hand, both his father and the liquor store clerk had commented on how upset he looked – the clerk had used the word "shell-shocked." If Charlie had been that upset, maybe he'd just taken off without bothering to think – just blindly tried to put distance between himself and L.A. If that was the case, Don's bet was that he'd continued north. Once he was out of L.A., it was more likely that he wouldn't head back that way.

In either situation, however, he didn't have much to go on. Dividing the state between north and south at Santa Clarita narrowed the search hardly at all. And maybe Charlie had headed east after Santa Clarita, and wasn't in California at all, anymore. The clerk's verification that Charlie had bought not one, but six large bottles of bourbon had brought a chill to Don's heart. Charlie was slight and an inexperienced drinker – especially when it came to drinking hard alcohol. It wouldn't be hard for him to drink himself to death – one normal-sized bottle would be enough to do it if the time period was short enough, let alone twelve times that amount.

He got in his SUV and just sat for a moment, suddenly defeated. His sense of urgency had actually increased after finding out about Charlie's alcohol purchase, but until he had more information, he had nowhere to go from here. He sighed and rubbed his face and put his SUV into gear, heading south when he got to the ramp, back to L.A.

* * *

One day later, Mary Watson stood at her window and watched the lone figure, far down below. He was sitting on the sliver of beach below her property; although the beach wasn't private it was always empty, because it was along a desolate piece of road and was surrounded by large rocky outcroppings that kept people from neighboring beaches from wandering there along the water. Her guest had been at her inn for two days now, and he'd spent the better part of both of them down there on the beach – how he managed to get there without falling on the steep rocky path, she'd had no idea, because he staggered all the way down. Then he'd sit there with his oversized bottle of whiskey and stare out at the water and drink. Just her luck – her first guest since she'd opened her small inn; and he was a drunk. Funny thing was, though, he hadn't looked like a drunk when he showed up. He'd looked young, and exhausted and sad, but he was well dressed and well groomed. Not a habitual drunk; something had sent him out here on this craggy, deserted section of coast. Something that had apparently rocked his world.

She was worried about him – he hadn't come up for breakfast either yesterday or today, and hadn't left the place to get food anywhere else. He seemed to be subsisting solely on whiskey, or whatever amber liquid was in the bottle that seemed to be his constant companion. He didn't seem to care about anything else, or about the havoc that so much alcohol could wreak on his body.

She turned and went into the kitchen and loaded up a plate with muffins and fruit and hard boiled eggs. If he wasn't going to come up for breakfast, maybe she'd leave some for him. She picked her way carefully down the path next to the house and with a glance at the figure below, tried the door to his room. It was unlocked and she let herself in and set the plate of food on the kitchen counter, scooping the eggs up and depositing them in the refrigerator.

She had rather expected the place to be trashed, but it wasn't. It didn't look like he'd even opened his suitcase, and the bathroom was unused except for the toilet – it had small splashes of what looked like dried vomit on the rim. That made her turn up her nose, but at least, she'd reflected, he'd made it to the bathroom, as she went to inspect the bedrooms. So he had drunk enough to make himself sick at least once. And he was still wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday, and now that she thought about it, they were the same clothes he had on the night he showed up. He'd been wearing jeans, a button shirt with thin white and pale blue stripes, and a jacket. He'd taken off his jacket, and that was all. The beds were still made, so he must have slept on the sofa or maybe passed out on the floor. No shower, no fresh clothes, no food, not even sleep in a real bed – just booze.

There was a case of it on the floor, with four full bottles still inside and one empty bottle on the counter, – and they were big bottles, double the usual size. He had his second one with him, down on the beach, so he'd drank the equivalent of at least two regular sized bottles of bourbon in less than two days, and was on his third or fourth, depending on how much was in the bottle he had with him. It was starting to sound like a recipe for disaster. She rubbed her forehead anxiously, trying to think of what to do. Should she call someone? But who? He wasn't breaking any laws – except perhaps for public intoxication when he was down on the beach, because that was public land. She didn't want to call the cops on the poor guy – and it wasn't as if he was causing a disturbance – but she had the sense that he needed help, and she had no idea who to call other than the police, or maybe emergency medical technicians.

She decided to stop short of that for now – he had obviously come here for privacy, and that was what she sold, at her little bed-and-breakfast. Solitude and magnificent views. She would see if he ate anything, or slowed down on the drinking before she did anything – maybe she'd even try to talk to him, first. She sighed and let herself out, then paused to look down at the beach below.

The young man was still in the same spot, sitting there facing the ocean, knees up, his left arm draped across them, oblivious to her presence. As she watched, he raised his right arm and lifted the bottle to his lips again, and then let it plunk back down on the sand, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Then he put his head down on the arm resting on his knees, as if he was too weary to hold it up any longer. He had to be, she reflected, as she turned to make her way back up the path, one of the saddest human beings she had ever seen.

* * *

After tracking the dead-end leads in Santa Clarita, with nothing better to do, Don had gone back to the office. He had a tech start making phone calls to California hospitals north of Santa Clarita, and he made some calls himself. That had taken the better part of that day. He had stopped short of expanding the list to southern California – or to Oregon or Washington or Nevada, for that matter. If they didn't get any hits in northern California, it was pointless to call randomly. He did have the tech do periodic card traces in case Charlie used his card again, but considering that he had $5000 cash, that wasn't looking likely, at least for a while. It was now well into the second day after Charlie had gone, and Don was trying to get some of his regular work done, all the while waiting and hoping for word from the BOLO alert.

It was tough going – it was hard to keep his mind on the work. His father, too, had gone into work that morning to keep his mind busy, but he kept checking with Don by phone, the text messages buzzing through periodically, asking if Don had heard anything. The longer it went without any word from the BOLO, the more Don's worry increased. What if Charlie had driven his car into one of the state parks with his carton of whiskey, back in the forest on some little-used gravel road? If he drank too much and got sick, he could be lying there, dying of alcohol poisoning, with no way to get help. Or what if he'd gone the other way from I-5, toward the coast? There were many drop-offs along the coastal highway – what if he was driving drunk and had gone over one them? Or worse, in a moment of drunken despair, had driven off one purposely?

It was excruciating to sit there and try to work with that on his mind, but it was better than sitting at home and stewing over it. And at least he was saving his vacation days – if they did find Charlie, Don was going to need them sooner or later.

He managed to make it until three o'clock before he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to move, had to get out of there. Knowing his father would be home by then, he decided to stop by the Craftsman in a show of support, if nothing else.

He found his father not in his apartment, but inside the main part of the house – Charlie's house. His father answered the door with a watchful expression – part hope, part dread. "Has something happened? Did you find him?"

Don shook his head, with a sigh. "No. Nothing. I just thought I'd stop by."

A mixture of relief and disappointment flitted over Alan's face, and he nodded wearily. He looked tired and worried, but the slight undercurrent of anger in his demeanor was gone; in fact, Don sensed sympathy when his father looked at him. "I'm glad you did," Alan said. "Come on in."

Don stepped inside, and his father stood, hesitating for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I was pretty hard on you the other day - I didn't mean to be. I want to be clear, I don't think this is your fault. The news was just so shocking and disappointing - I was angry at the circumstances, not at you."

Don shook his head. "I didn't handle it very well."

"I think you did fine, considering the circumstances," said Alan. "How could you possibly have been expecting that?" He sighed. "I stopped in to look at Charlie's desk upstairs again – I never did give it a good look the day he went missing, because I got side-tracked by the annulment papers. I was hoping maybe something was there – maybe he'd looked up a place to stay – had jotted down a note, something like that. There wasn't anything, but apparently Amita has been here. The rest of her things are gone. She must have come this morning, while I was out."

Don frowned. The behavior, while not criminal if she'd truly taken only her things, was at least a little shady. To sneak in, while Charlie was gone…

Alan apparently had the same thought. "I thought I'd just take a look around; make sure everything's here that's supposed to be."

They both wandered around the house then, his father taking special care to check things of value – either monetary or sentimental. Amita had taken all of her clothes and a chair and a few pictures that she had brought with her when she moved in permanently. There was only one thing that didn't belong to her that was missing, and they both noticed it at the same time as they stood near a set of shelves. There had been two pictures sitting there, one of Charlie and one of Don, both of them taken for work – professional head shots of them in suits. The pictures had been taken at different times by different organizations, but they were remarkably similar. They had each received a copy and had given it to Alan, and he'd had them framed, but hadn't bothered to move them yet to his apartment. There was an empty place where one of them had been – the picture of Don was missing. And the picture of Charlie was face down, and when Alan lifted it, pieces of glass clattered onto the shelf. It had been smashed.

They looked at each other, and Alan said with concern, "There is definitely something not right, with her. I know that was a weird situation in any context when she confronted you in your apartment, but did she seem – sane?"

Don hesitated. "She acted sane, for someone who thought they were in love with someone else. A little too confident, maybe, that I'd feel the same way. But for her to get that idea into her head to begin with – and for her to do what she did, given the person she used to be…," he trailed off and rubbed his forehead. "I'm not sure."

Alan frowned. "I think I'm going to call her parents, just to get their perspective. And even if they don't have anything to tell us, they should know what's going on." He looked around the room. "And maybe we should change the locks." He looked at Don. "You might want to, as well, just in case she picked up a key to your place from Charlie."

* * *

Charlie blinked blearily as the last of the sun set into the Pacific that evening. Fifty hours, he thought, as he regarded his half-full bottle. Fifty hours and 3 liters of bourbon since he had seen them together, and the pain wasn't lessening; in fact, now that some of the shock had worn off, it was worse.

He had always been a little emotional – moody, his father called him. He had a tendency to feel emotions more than most, he suspected, but he had never in his life felt pain like this. Not even when his mother died – and then he'd nearly lost it, retreating into the garage and working feverishly on an unsolvable math problem for days without caring about food, water or sleep; he'd come close to cracking. However, when his mother had died, it wasn't anything that could be helped. She hadn't betrayed him – hadn't purposely hurt him, she had simply died, and a parent's death was really part of the natural order of things, although she had been taken much too soon. It was sad, but expected, eventually; a normal sequence of life except for the timing of it, and even so, he had taken it badly.

This was far worse. He was losing two people he loved, not just one, and nothing about this was normal. He had already been terrified over what was going on with Amita – the sense that he was slowly losing her, and that alone was enough to push him over the edge. But the shock of seeing Don with her and knowing he would lose him too – at least the Don that he thought he knew – was too much to bear. To know that what he'd thought was a growing relationship with his brother was a lie, nonexistent, hurt almost worse than losing Amita, in part because it was so unexpected, so deep a betrayal. The reality was that he had lost them both before he was even cognizant of the fact – they must have been going behind his back for a while now, based on Amita's behavior. She had been drifting away for weeks, for months, now. And looking back, there were signs – there probably had been more of them, but he'd been too stupid to see them. Amita at dinner, ignoring both him and Robin and talking only to Don. Their flirtation in the office. Don, as he smiled at her as they stood by his desk, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and the way she looked back up at him, breathlessly.

He felt another lump growing his throat and tears stinging his eyes again, and he took another swig of bourbon, and then, as he heard footsteps crunching in the coarse sand behind him, he took another drink to help swallow the tears, trying to regain some semblance of control.

The woman who ran the inn, Mary, squatted down beside him, peering at him in the gathering gloom. She was rocking back and forth – no – that was just his perception, he realized. The rocks were moving too. He was drunker than he had realized, and it brought a grim sort of satisfaction. He wasn't too far from passing out – and blessed oblivion.

He heard her voice as from a distance. "It's getting dark," she said. "I thought maybe you should come up that path while you can still see."

He stared at her a moment, trying to process that, and then nodded. She rose and he tried to stand and nearly fell, and she caught his hand in a surprisingly strong grip and pulled him to his feet. Upright, the beachscape whirled around him, the dark rocks and cliffs spinning, dancing with the lighter patches of sand. He could feel nausea rising but he took a couple of deep breaths and fought it down, staggering behind her as she led the way across the sand to the path that wound up the hill. Maybe he should have just slept down here on the sand tonight – laid at the water's edge and waited for the tide to come in and take him away. Just drift off peacefully…

"Are you coming?"

He realized that he had stopped and had turned around to face the water, and he managed to get himself pointed toward her and the path again. She hadn't spoken sharply – she was being patient, and he could see that she was looking at him with sympathy. He somehow felt obligated to her for her efforts, and so he did his best to wind his way through the rocks and follow her up the path. The section at the bottom was the steepest part and she had to help pull him up, but after that he managed by himself. He staggered once or twice into the boulders that lined the path and barked his shins, but it didn't matter; he couldn't feel them anyway.

They eventually made the top and she helped him inside his door and turned on the kitchen light; the sun had set during the last of their ascent and the room was dark. Food sat on the counter – fruit and muffins, and he stared at them in fascination, wondering where they had come from. He was forgetting things – had he brought them here? He couldn't remember.

"I brought you a little food," Mary said. "There are hard boiled eggs in the refrigerator. You should maybe lay off the booze a little and try to eat something, and drink some water."

The thought of eggs made his stomach lurch, but somehow he mumbled a 'thank you,' or something like it, and she sighed and nodded, and went to the door. There she hesitated. "I'll be honest, I don't think you're doing too well," she said. "Do you want me to call someone?"

That thought brought a spear of terror to his heart. 'Someone' would likely include Don, and he didn't dare face him, because if he did, he was sure he would crumble completely apart. The fear made him temporarily coherent, and he managed somewhat clearly, "No thank, you – I just need some time to myself, right now. I promise; I'll eat something."

She stared at him a moment longer, and then nodded. "Okay. Good night."

The door shut and Charlie nodded back at her, belatedly, and then took a swig of bourbon and staggered for the sofa. About a half hour and several swigs later, he found his oblivion.

End, Chapter 8

 _A/N: For those of you who think everyone is letting Don off too easy, don't - he has more censure to face, and not necessarily all of it from Charlie... but first, there will be whumping._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. I agree with all of you about Don - he's not getting off easy; his deep sense of right and wrong are generating enough guilt and worry for a serious emotional whump. This chapter is short but essential to parts of the rest of the story, and is just a little bit of a cliffie._

Chapter 9

Mary Watson waited until about ten the next morning before she checked on her guest. He hadn't gone down to the beach, and she hoped he had taken her advice and had eaten something and was finally getting some real sleep. It was a dull, gloomy day, gray and overcast, as she picked her way down the path next to the house. At the bottom, before knocking, she stepped sideways and peered in through the floor-to-ceiling window that was the outside wall of the living room, and her heart jumped uncomfortably as she saw her visitor sprawled on the sofa, face down. She took a step further to the right so she could look leftward, toward the kitchen, and she could see that her plate of fruit and muffins were still intact on the counter. He hadn't eaten then, and the bottle looked emptier and, God, he wasn't moving…

She had locked the door behind her the night before, and she hurriedly unlocked it, opened it, and called in, "Mr. Eppes? Mr. Eppes?" There was no response at first, but then the figure stirred a little and groaned, and she took a deep breath and tried to calm her pounding heart. She stepped inside and walked over to the sofa, trying to assess his condition. "Mr. Eppes? Can you sit up?"

Her guest groaned again, and then the young man rolled over and blinked at her, and then slowly, shakily, swung his feet to the floor and pushed himself until he was sitting upright. He propped his elbow on his knee as if to support his arm, then rubbed his face, but he swayed slightly as he sat – still drunk. He was alive, but no better than he had been the day before. "There's fresh breakfast upstairs if you want it," she said, and then she walked out, shutting the door behind her. She very much doubted he would be up for breakfast.

'That's it,' she thought firmly, and just a little angrily, as she headed up the path. 'This guy is _not_ going to die in my new inn." As soon as she got back to the front desk, she called 911.

* * *

Don didn't get the call until nearly noon. According to the report from Sam Winston over at LAPD, apparently an inn owner near Watsonville had called 911, requesting medical technicians at a little after ten that morning for a guest that she was concerned about. They made the visit along with an officer, assessed the man and found him drunk but not disorderly, and somewhat coherent. He refused to go with them for medical treatment, and the officer informed the inn owner that they couldn't take him unless she evicted him. Her guest would end up in jail in the drunk-tank if she did, because they would then arrest him for public intoxication for his own protection. She had told them no, she didn't want to do that to him, but asked if they could find a family member to come and talk to him.

That too, would normally have been off limits; it was unlikely that the officer would have gotten permission to spend his time and police resources on something like that. The officer had tried to get the young man to give them a phone number of friends or family but he refused. About to give up on the situation, the officer had run the plate on the car just to see if anything came up, and found the BOLO. By that time it was after eleven, and he put his report for the BOLO into the system. It had taken another several minutes to reach LAPD.

As soon as he got the call, Don hurried over to David and Colby's desk. "They found him," he said in a low voice. "He's okay – he's been holed up in a little inn on the coast, in Watsonville, a little south of San Fran. I'm heading up there now. Hold down the fort, and do me a favor and run up and tell Wright that I'm going. I'll play it by ear as to when I'm coming back in, but it takes over five hours to get up there – I'll be off for the rest of today, and probably be off tomorrow, too."

On his way out to his vehicle, he called his father. Alan was at work and wanted to leave and come along, but Don told him no. "I need to handle this, Dad. I need a chance to talk to him, alone."

Reluctantly, Alan agreed, and Don had gassed up his SUV and had set out for Watsonville. Emotions swam through him as he drove – fear foremost among them. Fear that Charlie wouldn't believe him, wouldn't forgive; fear that he would hate him. Anger was a close second – primarily directed at Amita for doing this to Charlie and to him – but also just a little bit at Charlie, for putting them, and especially their father, through this. Well, maybe anger was too strong a word in Charlie's case. Don didn't deserve to be angry at him, after what he'd done. Maybe frustration – with not being able to find him sooner – was a better word. And that brought him to guilt. Even though he hadn't initiated that kiss, his passiveness in dealing with it had made it look as though he had – and in this case, perception might have been just as bad as reality. The pain that Charlie had to be in was partially because of him – maybe unwittingly, true, but still, because of him.

He was about an hour into the trip, brooding, gut in a knot, when Amita called. He stared at the phone for a moment, debating on whether or not to answer it; then it occurred to him that his phone had the capability of recording the conversation. Maybe it would help his case with Charlie; maybe it wouldn't, but it was an option, so he hit 'record' and answered on the last ring before it went to voice mail. He could feel his anger flaring before he even heard her voice. He answered tightly, "Eppes."

" _Hi Don, it's Amita. I hadn't heard from you. Can you talk_?"

"There's nothing to talk about – unless you want to talk about how you're going to apologize – to Charlie, to me, to Robin, to my dad, and anyone else you've dragged through hell in the past few days."

There was a pause – he'd shocked her. Good. Then she said, her voice shaking a little, " _Wow, that's a little harsh. All I was trying to do was show you how I feel. I didn't mean to hurt Charlie, and I sure didn't mean to hurt you – I thought you felt the same way._ "

"On what grounds? I'm engaged to Robin – what in hell made you think that?"

" _You know why – that first kiss we had. You can't tell me you weren't attracted to me –_ _you_ _kissed_ me."

"Amita, that was way before you and Charlie were dating – it was years ago. I, frankly, had forgotten about it. Why would you think it was appropriate to go back to something that happened years ago and suddenly try to make it relevant? It's not – it means nothing to me now, and it meant nothing then. And you say you didn't mean to hurt Charlie? Are you kidding me? I'm on my way up to him now – he's been gone for three days, holed up in some place nearly drinking himself to death. Not that you apparently seem to care."

" _I know this is unfortunate for him, but I can't help how he feels_." She was beginning to sound a little defensive; a little angry. " _He and I aren't right for each other – you and I are. And why do you care so much about him, all of a sudden? You two never got along that well. He's odd, and annoying, and you know it_."

Don grimaced. That one hurt a little – it was true that he and Charlie hadn't gotten along well until the past few years. Their relationship had been improving, but she'd just hit upon his deepest fear. Were they on solid enough ground for that relatively recent bond to withstand what had just happened? Had enough trust been established for Charlie to ever be able to believe him? Would this dredge up old painful memories – most notably one years ago, when Don had stolen Charlie's prom date their senior year in high school? Maybe Charlie would hark back to the old memory as proof that nothing had changed – just like Amita was fixated on a kiss that had happened years ago.

His silence must have encouraged her, because she said, " _He'll get over it. You can't let him dictate your relationships – you can't let him stand in our way_."

He shook his head angrily, in disbelief. What kind of denial was she in, anyway? "Amita, you just don't get it. I. Am. Not. Interested. In. You. And Charlie isn't standing in my way – he'll be there to stand by me when I marry the woman I love: Robin. Drop the bullshit, and work on your own marriage. Although if you do try to go back to Charlie after this, you sure won't have my support. If this is how you view a lifelong commitment, he's better off without you. And am I picking him over you? Damn right I am. Don't call me again."

Her voice quavered tearfully, " _I need to see you. You'll change your mind – you know you will_ -,"

Her voice was rising, desperate; panic-stricken as he ended the call and hit 'save' to keep the recording. The phone rang again, then again, and then again, until he finally found a place to pull over. He went into his phone settings and blocked her as a caller, his father's earlier question resonating in his mind. _Is she sane?_

After a little over two more hours of soul-numbing driving, he got to Watsonville. He threaded through town out to Beach Road and followed it up along the cliff line. Even in the daylight he almost missed the little inn – it looked like someone's residence, tucked back behind towering shrubs. He pulled around behind the shrubs, next to Charlie's Prius. It was around five p.m.; the early evening sun had broken through a rather gloomy day and shimmered on the water, which stretched away as far as the eye could see. The house boasted spectacular views – it looked out over a steep, boulder-strewn slope that trailed away to a small section of beach, far below. There was no one on it.

A woman stepped out of the office to meet him as he headed toward the front door. She was in her thirties, attractive in a no-nonsense way, with long wavy brown hair. "I'm Mary Watson," she said, holding out her hand.

Don shook it. "Don Eppes – Charlie is my brother. You called about him this morning. We've been looking for him for a few days. We were pretty worried about him – we're glad you called."

"He's in his room – I'll take you to him," she said, as she led the way down a steep path that ran next to the house. "I take it he's gone through something traumatic. He hasn't eaten anything since he's been here – he just drinks. He spent the last two days down on the beach, staring at the water and drinking."

Don felt the need to explain, somehow. He didn't want her to think that Charlie was a habitual drunk. "His new wife gave him annulment papers a few days ago. She's decided that she's interested in – uh – someone else. He's taking it pretty hard."

She had stopped at the corner of the house, and he saw understanding in her eyes. "Ah – that would explain it. I'm sorry to hear that. I debated on whether to call anyone – he was here for privacy, after all, but I was so afraid he was going to get sick."

Don nodded. "He's not the most experienced drinker – you did the right thing. Did you tell him that someone was coming?"

"No. He hasn't been out of his room at all today. He was upset after the EMTs came to check him out – that was at a little before noon. I didn't want to disturb him this afternoon – I was hoping he was sobering up after that; sleeping it off."

Don sighed, chagrin on his face. "I'm not sure he's going to be all that happy to see me. If you hear an argument, don't be alarmed – I'm going to try to get him to sober up and come home. "

She looked at him curiously, but just nodded, and said, "His door is right around that corner. I'll be up in the office if you need me."

"Okay, thanks – and thanks for putting up with him."

She smiled. "He was actually an easy guest – I was just worried about him; that was all."

She headed up the path, and Don waited until she got almost to the top before he stepped around the corner onto a veranda. There was a door, and to the right of it stretched an expanse of floor-to-ceiling window. From his angle at the door, Don could see the far end of the room through the window. That end of the room was occupied by an empty armchair and an end table with a lamp on it. If he stepped to the right of the door and looked in the picture window, he'd be able to see into the rest of the room – but if Charlie was there he would be able to see Don as well, and Don wasn't sure he would open the door. So he stayed where he was, lifted his hand, and knocked.

End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thanks again for your comments, everyone - especially those of you faithfully commenting on each chapter. And now for a confrontation..._

Chapter 10

Charlie sat on the sofa, his head drooping. After the stressful encounter with the EMTs earlier that day, he had retreated to his suite. They couldn't make him go to the hospital, and he was apparently within his legal rights to drink in his rooms, so he did. Most of the afternoon, in fact. The whisky was starting to feel like a way of life – he'd been in a fog for most of the past few days. How many it days it was, he was no longer sure. He knew he was going to have to stop drinking at some point and deal with what had happened. He had no idea how, though, and his fogged faculties weren't clear enough to find a solution – and without a clear next step, he was stalled in a perpetual DO loop: drink, sober up enough to feel the hurt, and drink again.

At the knock on the door his head came up. There was a frosted glass pane at the top of it and through it he could make out the head and shoulders of a person – he couldn't see who was there but it looked like the profile of a man's head, as far as he could tell. Had the innkeeper, Mary, called the EMTs again? Or the police? He stumbled up out of the sofa and around the back of it, heading for one of the bedrooms, intending to hide his bottle behind the sofa on the way. He would go in a bedroom and pretend to be asleep. Maybe then they'd leave him alone.

He didn't quite make it. He had just clumsily set his bottle behind the sofa and straightened up, when the door pushed open and Charlie froze. Don. Not EMTS, not police – _Don_. He took in a sharp breath and felt his heart start to pound, painfully. They stared at each other across the room for a moment, then Don said, "Charlie."

He seemed about to continue, but Charlie found his voice, which unfortunately had a tinge of hysteria in it. "What are you doing here?"

Don advanced a step, his hands out in a placating gesture, and even though a few yards of floor and a sofa were between them, Charlie backed up toward the bedrooms. "Charlie, we need to talk."

"About what?" Charlie shot back. He was slurring a little, but he didn't care. He just wanted Don out of there – it hurt too much to look at him. Emotions were welling to the surface, taking control. "No we don't! There's nothing to talk about! Just - get out of here!"

"Charlie," Don pleaded, "please, just hear me out."

He took another step forward, and Charlie felt panic begin to rise, swirling in the whisky-induced fog. He was going to crack into pieces if Don didn't leave; he was going to shatter like glass. He stumbled backward against the wall, flinging up a hand, his voice rough with unshed tears, "No! Stay back! No talking – you lie – y-you _lie_! I loved you, and looked up to you, and - and _trusted_ you all these years – you acted like you cared, and it was just an act – you say what you think people want to hear so you get what you want. You've been lying to me the whole time. You've never been about anything but _yourself_!" His voice cracked; he was starting to break. "Get out of here, or I'll – I'll call the police." He fumbled for his cell phone. "I swear to God, I'll call 911."

He knew, even in his drunken state, that calling the police on a FBI agent was probably not much of a threat, but he was desperate and couldn't come up with anything else. Oddly though, it seemed to work – Don held his hands up, and said, "Okay, Charlie, just calm down. I'm leaving." He looked upset, and he glanced sideways as he turned and saw the cardboard box from the liquor store sitting on the floor, and he reached down and hefted it. "I'm taking this with me," he said firmly. "You're going to sober up tonight, and we're going to drive back home tomorrow morning – Dad's worried sick about you." Then he backed out, snagging the door and shutting it on the way out.

Charlie stumbled backward another step until his back hit the wall, and then he slid down it until he landed with a soft thump on the floor, and trembling, put his head down with a moan.

* * *

Don stood outside the door for a moment, trying to get a grip on his emotions. He had the brief urge to set the box down and go back inside, and he stepped sideways slightly and peered through the huge window – in time to see Charlie slide down the wall into a slumped sitting position, his head down. His brother was obviously still intoxicated – there was no sense trying to push it right now. He might make good on his threat to call the police – not that Don had any fear of that being an issue for himself – but after already being the subject of a 911 call that morning there was a good chance that Charlie would end up in jail, himself, for making what could be looked at as a frivolous emergency call while intoxicated. Don didn't want to risk that if he could help it. Better to back off, let him sleep off the alcohol, and address it in the morning. And better to back off to minimize the risk of another scathing diatribe. Don knew that Charlie's words were fueled by deep pain and his restraint was loosened by alcohol, and that once he knew the real story he might take those words back. At the moment however, it didn't make them hurt any less.

Don trudged up the hill carrying the heavy box and put it in the back of his SUV, and then got in the driver's seat and just sat there. His eyes were stinging a little – traitorously – and he rubbed at them with a mixture of impatience and resignation. He'd suspected it would be bad, but the full impact hadn't hit him until he saw Charlie. His brother had looked terrible – gaunt, with several days' worth of stubble, his usually groomed curls a wild dark halo that accentuated the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes. He actually looked a little deranged – like he was cracking mentally, or about to. To know that he had been a party to reducing Charlie to that was gut-wrenching – and so were Charlie's bitter accusations. It was Charlie's use of the past tense that hurt him most – 'loved,' 'looked up to,' 'trusted,' – it made Don cognizant of the fact that Charlie really had felt those things about him prior to this – and of the fear that he might never get that back. And 'you've never been about anything but yourself,' – did Charlie really suspect that for all of these years Don only participated in a relationship when it would get him something he wanted? If so, Don reflected, he had done a miserable job of letting the people around him know how much he appreciated them.

Then on further thought, he amended that. Not people – Charlie. He was tough on his team, but regularly let his co-workers know when they did a good job and that he appreciated them; and especially since Mom had died he had made sure to let his dad know how grateful he was to him, to hug him, to engage in meaningful conversations. And Robin – well, he showed her every day how much he cared about her; he spent most of his free time with her. Charlie? Don racked his brain. As far as spending free time with him since he'd gotten engaged, he'd spent next to none unless it involved a double date. At the close of a successful case, Charlie got a quick pat on the arm, a 'thanks, Buddy,' in passing, and that was that, no matter how many hours of work or sleepless nights he had incurred. A scrap tossed to an obedient dog. Don could see the gratitude in his brother's eyes for that pathetic bit of recognition, as clear as day, and it made him wince. Charlie was right in a way, at least as far as he was concerned – Don got what he wanted out of the relationship, and didn't give much back. Maybe if he had made a little more effort to show Charlie how much he really meant to him, Charlie wouldn't be so quick to think that he could have done something as horrible as cheat on him with his new wife. Don had thought that he and Charlie had made big strides in their relationship in recent years, but it was painfully obvious now that it wasn't as solid as he thought it was – and that maybe Charlie wasn't getting as much out of it as Don had been. Well, if they could somehow get past this – if he could regain Charlie's trust – that was going to change.

He sighed and rubbed his face, he wasn't hungry, but he hadn't eaten anything since early morning, and he knew he had to eat – and to find a place to sleep, because he was obviously going to be here until the next morning. He stepped out of his SUV and walked up on the porch, rapping lightly of the office door before entering.

Mary Watson was behind the desk. "How did it go?" she asked.

Don sighed. "Not great. He's still pretty out of it. I confiscated his booze and put it in my SUV, and told him to sober up tonight and get some sleep and that we'd leave in the morning. He won't be in any shape to drive until then. I was wondering –," he trailed off as he spotted a flyer with her rates. There were three suites, she only rented by the week – and wow – the upper suites went for $2000 per week?

He rerouted his request. "I was wondering if there is a hotel around here that you'd recommend. I see you rent by the week."

Mary shook her head with a smile a shrug. "That's okay – you can just stay here, on the house. I think the other places are pretty booked up, and I don't have any other guests – I just opened this week. And if your brother leaves tomorrow, he paid for a week and won't have been there that long. I'll need to send him a partial refund anyway."

"Thanks," said Don, gratefully. "I appreciate it. I might run into town to grab a bite to eat, and then I'll be back."

She handed him a set of keys and pointed to the door on the right. "If I'm not here when you come back, you're in the top suite – just go through that door and go down the first short flight of stairs and you're there." She pointed the other direction, to a small room with three sets of small dining tables. "There's breakfast in that room in the morning."

He thanked her and headed back out to his SUV, suddenly aware that he needed to call his father. He slid into the driver's seat and sent a brief text to David that he had found Charlie and would be off tomorrow. He sent a similar text to Robin and let her know he'd call her later. Then he dialed his father, and Alan picked up on the first ring.

" _Did you find him_?"

"Yeah, Dad, I found him."

" _He's okay?_ _How did it go_?"

"Not too good. He doesn't look too hot. I don't think he's eaten, or shaved or showered or even changed his clothes since he left home. I tried to talk to him, but he's too drunk to reason with right now. I took his booze away and put it in my car, and told him to sleep it off tonight and that we'd drive home in the morning. I'll try to talk to him tomorrow."

" _Are you okay_?"

The words brought a sudden, unexpected rush of tears to Don's eyes, and his throat contracted. "Yeah," he managed, huskily. He was silent for a moment, fighting for control of his voice before he continued. It still shook when he said, "I'm pretty sure he hates me. And I'm not sure he's gonna believe me."

" _It may take time – but he will, son. Hang in there_."

"Okay – you too." Don was suddenly anxious for the conversation to end. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, after I talk to him." They exchanged good-byes; he ended the call and started his SUV, wiped the tears from his eyes, and headed for town.

* * *

The next dawned like the day before; damp and gloomy – daylight barely changing the cool gray dawn that crept in over the horizon, and touched the water from the east. For Charlie it was an event that went unnoticed – not that he was asleep – but because he was too drunk to recognize discreet events, like a sunrise.

His bottle behind the sofa had gone undiscovered by Don when he was there the night before, and it was nearly full – or had been at the time. Don's visit had sent Charlie into a tailspin, and shortly after he had gone, Charlie was lurching away from his seat against the wall and laying his hands on the bottle. Precious elixir, banisher of memories, of pain, of the sense that he was going to crack and fall apart at any moment. He'd been drinking all night.

As morning dawned, he was up and staggering out the door by seven thirty, drawn by the water. Reeling and tottering, he made his way down the rocky path to the beach. He was so far gone he'd almost forgotten that Don had been there the evening before until he heard the call behind him, and he gasped and jerked around to see Don standing up on the top of the hill next to the house, saw him start to come down the slope after him.

"Go away!" The words were spoken to himself, but sounded like they'd come from another – a moan of desperation. The crack in his psyche strained, threatening to burst open. He needed to get away from the source of the pain if he wanted to hold onto the last shreds of control. Panicked, he began to hurry, stumbling and half-falling, then righting himself, banging into boulders, staggering down the steep slope.

* * *

In spite of the homey suite and a comfortable bed, Don had spent a poor night's sleep, tossing and turning; Charlie's sharp words and Don's anxiety over their coming talk the next morning consumed his thoughts. He rose early, showered and dressed in the clothes he had worn the day before, and fortified himself with a homemade muffin and some strong coffee – with emphasis on the coffee, before he stepped outside.

He had thoughts of going out to get some fresh air and to take in the view for a little while until it was time to go down to wake Charlie – and was shocked to see his brother staggering down the steep path below him. His first thought was laced with anger and frustration when he saw the bottle clenched in Charlie's hand and watched him stagger – where in the hell had he gotten that from, and why was he still drinking, when Don had told them they were driving home today? His second thought, immediately on the heels of that, as he watched Charlie reel into a boulder and narrowly stop himself from hurtling down the steep rocky path, was, " _Oh, my God – he's going to fall and kill himself_."

"Charlie! Charlie, wait!" Don hurried down the path after him and saw Charlie look back, almost fearfully, and then increase his pace. He was nearly halfway down already, but Don had the advantage of controlled movement and was gaining ground. He saw with trepidation that Charlie was approaching the end of the path; it was the steepest part, with large chunks of rock buried in the sand below, and it was there that Charlie fell.

Don saw it happen as if in slow motion, saw his brother's ankle turn and his leg give, saw him try to regain his balance, and then he toppled down the remainder of the path, bouncing off boulders, yards later landing like a rag doll in the coarse sand, thankfully in a spot void of rocks. The bottle went flying and landed on the ground a yard or two away, the remainder of its contents gurgling out into the sand. Don charged down the slope after him, panic-stricken. Charlie had come to rest, face down - and he wasn't moving.

As Don reached his side, he realized with a flash of relief that Charlie was conscious. However, he was far from all right. He was lying there in the sand, sobbing, his body prone, helpless, sand crusting the side of his face, in his hair – the whole fiber of his being crushed, defeated. Broken, was all that Don could think. _I've broken him._ He dropped to his knees next to his brother.

For a moment he could say or do nothing, his despair nearly as intense as Charlie's, tears running down his own face, and then he gently reached down and turned Charlie, gingerly, carefully, checking for injuries as he went. Charlie was still crying, but disturbingly docile, as if he'd finally cracked apart and his will had vanished through the rift. He let Don raise him into a sitting position, let Don gently brush some of the sand from his face. Don wiped his own face on his sleeve, and said, "Come on, Charlie, let's go home."

Charlie wouldn't or couldn't look at him; his eyes were glazed over and he seemed almost in shock, but he let Don help him to his feet and he slowly started up the path when Don told him to climb, tears still running down his face. He was hobbling a little, his ankle already starting to swell, and Don was sure there were livid bruises under his shirt and jeans. Charlie kept moving, however; slowly, zombie-like, until they reached the top. Don guided him gently to the SUV and opened the back door and helped him inside, and Charlie collapsed on his side on the back seat, curled into a fetal position, and closed his eyes. Done, spent. Broken.

Don quickly headed down the slope and into Charlie's suite, grabbing his duffel back and computer bag, snagging his Prius keys on the counter. He did a cursory check of the rooms to make sure he had everything, and then hurried back up the cliff and put the bags in his vehicle. He went inside the office and hit the bell, and Mary came out from a back room, a question on her face.

"We're leaving," said Don, "but I'm going to have to leave his car here – probably until the weekend. I'll come back up with someone and get it. Is that all right?"

"Sure," she said. "Is he okay?"

"Not really. He still had some bourbon – apparently I didn't get it all last night. He's pretty out-of-it. I've got him in the vehicle already. Thanks again for your help."

"Sure. I'll probably see you in a few days, then."

He hurried back out. Charlie was still lying there on the back seat the way he had left him, eyes closed, body limp like a dead man's, and he stayed that way, all the way back to L.A.

End, Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _There was something wrong with the site but it appears to be up and running now. It wasn't showing the reviews, although they were showing up in my email, and when I tried to use the reply URL it wouldn't let me reply to them. Hopefully that's all fixed, but I do want to say thanks, and I have been getting your comments, and I am doing my usual tweaking of chapters after I read them - I made some changes to this one and the next, and one down the road further yet, based on your comments. I'm posting a little sooner than normal because it sounds like you are all keeping up, and I've got the next one queued up. Thanks again..._

Chapter 11

Alan's head came up as he heard the car in the driveway, and he hurried to the door. Don was stepping wearily out of his SUV and Alan didn't see Charlie, and wondered for a split second if the plan had changed – if Charlie had refused to return. Then Don opened the rear door of his vehicle, and Alan got to his side in time to see him give Charlie a gentle shake.

Charlie blinked blearily, and slowly, stiffly pushed himself to a sitting position. Alan barely recognized him. He was disturbingly thin, and he had particles of coarse sand stuck on his face, which was covered in several days' worth of stubble. His curly dark hair was a wild mess, flecked with the same coarse sand. He looked disoriented for a moment, then cognition flashed in his eyes, along with pain, and he pushed himself out of the vehicle. He rose slowly, swaying; he still hadn't said a word, and he looked so miserable, Alan couldn't help but put his arms around him, and pull him into a comforting hug. Charlie smelled like stale whiskey – it was still on his breath, coming out of his pores. He gave a half-hearted hug back.

He said nothing when they broke apart, just shuffled slowly toward the house without a word to either of them. Alan looked at Don, concerned, and Don shook his head as they followed him in. By the time they got through the door, Charlie was slowly climbing the stairs to his room, hobbling a little. Alan went to collect a large glass of water and two ibuprofen tablets to bring to him, but when he got up there, Charlie was already passed out, face down on top of his comforter. Alan left the water and the pills by the bedside and closed the door.

Downstairs, he took one look at his other son, who while not in as rough shape physically, looked equally as miserable, and pulled him into his arms as well. He was shocked when he heard a stifled sob in his ear, and he tightened his grip. Don never cried. "It's going to be okay, Donny," he whispered fiercely.

He stepped back, and Don ran a hand over his face. Alan said, "Come out to the kitchen – get some water and something to eat."

Don followed him; silently, almost meekly, and Alan reflected that the events appeared to be knocking the will out of both of his sons. He made Don a sandwich and got him some water, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with him.

Don took a few listless bites of his sandwich, and then finally spoke. "I started to go down to his room to get him today and saw him on the path that led down to the beach. I must have missed a bottle last night when I took his booze, because he had one with him, and he was staggering pretty badly. I called out to him and he looked back up at me – it almost looked like he was afraid – and then he started going faster. He hit a steep part at the end of the path and fell – went head over heels, hitting rocks on the way down. It scared the hell out of me."

Alan frowned in concern. "Do you think we need to take him to the hospital?"

Don sighed. "I don't know. I checked him over and I don't think he hit his head – he'll probably have some nasty bruises, but being drunk might have actually helped him – he didn't fight the fall; he just kind of rolled with it. He landed face-down in the sand, too, instead of on the rocks. The worst part though, was how he was acting when I got down there. It was pathetic – he was just lying in the sand, crying." Don's voice cracked, and he looked up at his father miserably. "All I could think was that I broke him. He just looked – _broken_."

" _You_ didn't break him," said Alan firmly. "Get that out of your head."

"Not intentionally," admitted Don sadly. "But I was part of it." He sighed. "It was like it took all of the fight out of him. He slept all the way home – passed out, I guess. We never got a chance to talk. He still doesn't know what happened between me and Amita – and I don't think he wants me anywhere around him, and based on his reaction this morning, I'm not sure I want to push it. I think he needs to sober up – as painful as it might be – and get some food and sleep. He's in no condition to talk to anyone right now."

Alan sighed and nodded. "I'd have to agree with you there. I'm still torn on taking him to the hospital – which might be on the safe side, physically, but as far as his mental healing goes, being at home is probably better. I might just stay in my old bedroom tonight and keep checking on him."

Don nodded. "That's probably a good idea." He rose, leaving half of his lunch on the plate. "Thanks for the sandwich. I'm going to get going – I don't think I should be here when he wakes up. Maybe I'll come over and talk to him tomorrow night, if you think he can handle it. If not, send me a text, and I'll stay away until you think he's ready. I'm going to have to drive back up there this weekend with someone – maybe David or Colby – and get his car."

Alan saw him to the door and watched him drive away. His older son looked defeated, and Charlie – well, Don was right – he seemed like a zombie – a hollowed out shell of misery. After nearly poisoning himself and refusing to eat for days, Charlie would need to heal and regain his strength physically to be able to handle that talk with his brother, Alan knew. But he also knew that talk might make the mental healing start earlier – and he was going to do his best to make sure it happened sooner, rather than later.

* * *

Charlie slept through the rest of that day and until nearly nine the next morning. When he woke, he rolled over onto his back gingerly, stifling a groan. He was so sore – a brief examination revealed several large bruises on his torso and limbs, and for a moment he could not recall how he gotten them. Then a dim, disjointed memory came to him – a clumsy fall down the path and onto the sand followed by a complete collapse, in front of his brother, no less. His face flushed with humiliation, but that didn't stop tears from creeping into his eyes again. The pain still squatted in his heart like an ugly little creature, and for the first time in days he was facing it sober. Well, he was home now – actually against his will, but now that he was here he was going to need to try to function. Home meant a loss of privacy; he was sure – his father would be hovering, invading his space, and would likely protest over the drinking. It would be too much trouble to fight over it, more trouble than he had the will for, and deep down, he knew he had to stop, anyway, and get on with things. But it was so freaking hard. He had to try to tamp down the agony, tame it, try not to think about it, because the minute he did, he felt himself starting to break apart again. To him, it felt like loss - as profound as if he had just lost two people he loved in a car accident, or some other sudden event. That, with an added does of betrayal.

He rose, carefully, shakily, and managed to get upright. He had to stand there and just breathe for a moment, he felt so dizzy. When he did take a step, he realized his ankle was sore, stiff and swollen. Slowly he made his way into the bathroom, grabbing some clean clothes on the way, and started the water. He took a shower, washed his hair, which took a while because it was impossibly matted and full of sand. Then he got out, dried himself, put on boxers and jeans, both of which hung at his waist, and faced himself in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him – pale and thin, with a dark beard and dead eyes. He mechanically went through the ritual of shaving, of partially drying his hair and putting in a little gel to tame the curls, of pulling on a T-shirt. Everyday routine – but no day would be routine, ever again. His hands shook so badly that it took a while to get ready, but finally he was done, and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Alan heard the shower upstairs, and breathed a little sigh of relief. It was a small step, but for Charlie to get up and be motivated enough to take care of personal hygiene was a good sign. Alan forced himself to stay in the kitchen – he thought it best to give Charlie his space and see what he would do with it – and busied himself with making a fresh pot of coffee.

As he heard footsteps on the stairs he took a peek out through the door, which was cracked slightly open. Charlie was moving very slowly and shakily, one hand on the banister. After-effects of all the alcohol, Alan told himself, and not enough food. He turned and slid some bread into the toaster. It would be good to start with something easy to digest.

He was hell-bent on trying to act normally, to embrace matter-of-fact routine to make it easier for Charlie, but when his son came through the door, his thin shoulders drooping and the despair so apparent in his eyes, Alan couldn't help but cross over and give him a hug – his own eyes watering. To see one's child hurting that much…

He broke the hug and cleared his throat, and said, "Sit down, son. I'll get you some coffee, and I have some toast coming."

Charlie slid into a chair with the faintest of nods, and just sat there, silently. When the coffee mug was placed in front of him, he raised it with badly shaking hands, then took a sip, and then another. He carefully set it down, and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

The toaster popped, and Alan briskly retrieved the slices of toast and buttered them. He put them on a plate, poured himself some coffee and went and sat at the table, setting the toast near Charlie. "Sorry about what?"

Charlie shrugged a shoulder, staring apathetically at the table. Still no eye contact, thought Alan, but at least he was talking. One step at a time. "Sorry for running off like that. I just had to – get out of here. I was afraid Don would show up and I – I couldn't face him – I couldn't handle it."

"Charlie," said Alan gently. "He wants to talk to you. He wants to explain what happened. I think you need to hear his side of the story."

Charlie finally made eye contact then, and the pain and bitterness in his eyes nearly made Alan flinch. " _His_ side of the story?" he said with disbelief. "As if any kind of rationale would make _that story_ acceptable. He's been _cheating_ with my _wife_!"

"No, he hasn't," said Alan firmly. "He told me what happened, and I believe him. I'm not going to say more because I think he wants you to hear it from him, but you need to hear him out. And although it doesn't vindicate Amita, I'm afraid; I think it will make you feel a little better about your brother." He rose, and clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "I know this is hard, son, but you _will_ get through it, and we will get through it with you. Now eat some toast – if you keep that down, I'll make something a little more substantial later." He headed out to the living room to read the paper, leaving Charlie staring at his mug of coffee.

* * *

Don stepped wearily into the break room at the office that morning, and David and Colby sidled in after him. It was just the three of them, and as Don poured his cup of coffee and turned to face them, he could see the questions and concern in their eyes.

"How'd it go?" asked David, quietly.

Don sighed. "Well, I got him home. I had to leave his car there. He was a mess – in no condition to drive. According to the woman who ran the inn, he'd been drinking since he got there, and not eating. He was passed out on my backseat all the way home – I didn't get a chance to talk to him, other than briefly, when I first got there, and he let me have it. He was too drunk and too upset – I didn't try to explain."

They both frowned at that, but Colby said, "Maybe that's helpful – I mean, maybe he got some of it off his chest."

Don rubbed his face wearily. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know. I'm going to try to go over to the house tonight, after he's had a chance to sober up and get some sleep and try to talk to him, if he's up for it." He looked at them. "I might need to call in a favor – I'll need someone to go up and get his car with me, maybe this weekend. If either of you are up for a road trip, let me know."

They both nodded emphatically. "Anything," said Colby, and David said, "Let us know what we can do to help."

"Thanks, guys," said Don gratefully. They didn't know it, but they already had – by making it clear that they accepted his side of the story. It eased the guilt, a little – not enough, but a little.

* * *

Amita Ramanujan was miserable. So miserable, in fact, that she could barely function. Her life was a shambles, and without Don, none of it meant anything. She was adrift – she couldn't find secure footing anywhere.

She had left campus yesterday after her phone call to Don – she had become hysterical after she realized he had blocked her phone, and after ranting in her office – which prompted one of the other professors to come in and check on her, she tried hard to collect herself. There was a strange roaring in her ears and she tried to breathe deeply, so deeply, in fact, that she nearly hyperventilated, and decided on the spot that she was done. Done with what, she wasn't sure, but the anxiety and the crawling sensation in her insides were killing her. She had to get away from that – had to be done with her former life, which included Charlie and Cal Sci. She had already given Charlie annulment papers, and she decided right then that Cal Sci had to go as well. Impatiently brushing away her tears, she started typing. Then she walked into Dean Willis' office with her resignation letter and resigned.

He was obviously shocked and tried to talk her out of it, reminded her that private counseling was available through Cal Sci's health insurance plan, insinuated that she was perhaps temporarily not thinking rationally and that she shouldn't make such a rash decision on the spur of the moment. She didn't care – she was _done_. She walked out, leaving him holding the letter, helplessly. It felt good to exercise a little bit of power, because it seemed she had none these days.

She went to her new apartment and sat there the rest of the day in the single living room chair that was hers, which she'd brought from the Craftsman. When she'd moved in with Charlie she had gotten rid of much of her furniture. She'd had a mattress delivered to her new apartment the day she moved in, and she had a lamp and the chair. She sat in that chair staring at the picture of Don she had taken until darkness descended, and then went to bed and stayed there that night and into most of the next day. In the quiet and the darkness, the roaring in her ears and the anxious feeling finally receded but despair took over, deep and dark and soul-destroying.

She finally roused herself that evening, after nearly 24 hours in bed. Although she still felt depressed, calmness had returned, along with a bit of confidence, which grew as the moments went on. She would prevail. This was a temporary setback. As Charlie recovered from their split and Don's concern for him lessened, Don would relax and begin to see that perhaps he had overreacted. She just had to give it a little time; that was all. She got up, turned on the lamp, letting light into the dark apartment. She took a shower, did her hair, put on makeup and some clothes. It was dinner time and she was starting to get hungry. She would go down to Petey's and get something to eat and hang with her friends.

* * *

Charlie spent the day in the solarium. It was the one place in the house where he and Amita hadn't spent much time together, and so was least associated with memories of her. Even so, it didn't banish them, and they haunted much of his waking time. After breakfast, the rest of the day was spent alternately napping or thinking about what his father had said about Don. His father seemed convinced that Don wasn't at fault, but then, he hadn't seen him standing there, actually kissing Amita. Charlie didn't see how that could be misinterpreted, himself. But if it could… A part of him – a big part – wanted desperately for Don to be innocent, if it was somehow possible, but he couldn't see how. He had a hazy memory of seeing Don at the hotel, and he tried hard to think about whether he had said anything then to explain the situation, but he couldn't remember any of it, other than his tumble down the slope and his humiliating collapse, and a vague recollection of Don helping him up the hill afterward.

He took brief breaks from his solitude for lunch and dinner, and thankfully, his father didn't press him for anything except to do his best to get down some food. Breakfast and lunch were pretty dicey, but dinner actually tasted good, and he got a fair amount down before his mental defenses broke and the memories intruded. He cleaned up the kitchen to have something to do to keep his mind occupied, and then went back upstairs. He briefly toyed with immersing himself in a mathematical analysis, which normally was an activity that he would lean on in moments when he wanted to keep his mind off something – but he didn't have the will for it. Even the lure of his blessed mathematics was not enough to pull him out of his deep well of despair.

He watched the sun set from the solarium, watched the darkness descend, and with it, felt his mood sink further – if such a thing were possible. Shortly after dark, he saw Don's SUV pull up on the street below, and he felt his gut contract. Don was here – and his father had said this morning that he wanted to talk. Charlie shook his head, and paced away from the window and then back, his arms slung protectively over his middle. He wasn't ready for this. What if Don's story didn't hold water – what if his excuses sounded like lies? Charlie couldn't bear to face that – to hear him lie on top of all of it. He left the light off – he was sure his father would tell Don where he was, but maybe if the room was dark, Don would think he was asleep…

End Chapter 11

 _A/N: Sorry for yet another cliffie - this chapter was something of a transition, but sets the stage for some later stuff. The next two chapters should be more satisfying - the brothers do finally have a sober conversation in the next chapter, and the chapter after that, well, let's just say the story takes a very dark turn._


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Many thanks for the reviews! Here's 12..._

Chapter 12

Don walked slowly up the stairs, turned left and paced to the door that led to the solarium, and took a deep breath. He was more nervous about the pending conversation than he ever had been in his job, even when facing the business end of a gun barrel. He was well aware that how he delivered his message could mean the difference between Charlie believing him or not. " _Don't screw this up_ ," he breathed to himself; then he knocked lightly on the door.

There was no sound from the other side, and he tried the knob. The door was unlocked but the solarium was dark, and Don's first thought was that Charlie was asleep. He pushed the door open a little wider, stepped in and let it drift shut behind him as he walked quietly up the short flight of steps. At the top of them, he stopped. Charlie was awake – he was standing over by the windows, facing Don – his body illuminated from behind by the silver moonlight and street light that filtered through the window. Don couldn't see his expression; that same light threw his face into shadow. Don took a step sideways and clicked on a small antique lamp that sat on a table. It sent dim yellow light into the room, which faded to sepia beyond a few feet.

It was enough light to see Charlie, however, to see his arms crossed protectively in front of him, to see the tension in his body and the pain and anger and hurt and wariness in his eyes. If I fail at this, Don thought to himself, that's the look I'll get from him, forever. They stared at each other for a moment from across the room in the dim light. The silence was thick; charged with emotion.

"Charlie," Don said finally. "I need to talk to you."

Charlie didn't move or speak, but Don forged on. "I need to tell you a story." He took a deep breath. "A long, long time ago, one night after you and Amita came in to the office – right after that first case you worked on with me – I dropped you both off at home afterward. I dropped you off first, and when I dropped Amita off at her door, I kissed her."

He saw Charlie flinch, lean forward slightly and saw his arms tighten around his body as if he was in pain, and then he turned away to stare out the window. Don's throat tightened, but he continued. "I admit, I was mildly attracted to her back then – but it was long before you two were dating, or even before I suspected you were interested in her. I looked at a lot of women back then – she wasn't unique, and the attraction was no more than that – a mild interest in a pretty woman. The kiss was brief – experimental, I guess. I wasn't even attracted enough to pursue anything further after that, and as soon as I realized you were interested in her, I put it out of my mind completely. That was years ago, and I frankly had forgotten all about it, until recently."

There was no response from Charlie; the silence was palpable. Don took a breath and continued. "It would have stayed forgotten, except for Amita. The other night, the evening you were supposed to come to my apartment, she showed up first. She said she had a project that she had started that she wanted me to look at. I thought it was odd that she showed up at my apartment instead of the office, but then I thought that maybe you both had made plans to go out after you came over. I was getting a really strange vibe from her, but I told myself I was being stupid and rude, and let her in. I went in to my bedroom to hang up my jacket, and when I came out she was standing at the end of the hallway that led to the living room, smiling at me."

He paused again, looking for some response from Charlie, but he remained turned away, his thin frame hunched slightly, motionless except for the expansion and contraction of his chest, which was somewhat exaggerated – he was breathing deeply, obviously trying to keep his emotions in check.

"I tried to get around her, but she wouldn't budge, and then she told me that she was in love with me."

Charlie made a small choking sound, and Don paused and swallowed. "I was shocked. I asked her if it was some kind of joke, and she got upset. She told me no – that she was in love with me and she was sure I was in love with her, and reminded me about that kiss. Then she told me that she was sure that if we kissed again, I would remember how I felt about her – and if we kissed and I still didn't feel anything, she would drop it all and go away."

Don stared at Charlie, and took a couple of steps forward. "Charlie – I still don't know exactly why I didn't move when she first kissed me. I was so stunned that I wasn't thinking straight. My gut reaction was to push her away – I actually put my hands on her shoulders to push her back, but she was wearing those ridiculous heels, and I was afraid she'd fall. And another part of me was saying, "Okay, if I just stand there like a board and I don't kiss her back, she'll get this crazy idea out of her head" – just like she said, she would drop it and go away. So I stood there, for just a second or two while those thoughts went through my head – but I did _not_ kiss her back. That is what you saw, when you opened the door. Her kissing me, and me frozen in place – it was completely one-sided."

He paused. "I didn't know that you had seen that, not right away. It was only seconds, and then I was starting to get over the shock, starting to get angry, and I grabbed her arms so she wouldn't fall and pushed her away and told her that it should be obvious now that there was nothing there, and to get the hell out of my apartment. Then she told me that you had been there. Charlie –," Don could feel tears threatening, and his voice cracked. "That was the worst moment of my life. All I could think of was that you had to have misinterpreted what you saw, and how much that must have hurt you. How much _I_ had hurt you. I ran downstairs after you, but you were already tearing out of the parking lot. I tried to catch you at home, but you were already gone. I've been looking for you, wanting to tell you what happened, ever since."

Charlie bowed his head and lifted one hand to his face, and Don stepped closer, nearly to his side. His brother had his hand covering his eyes, but Don could see tears glistening on his cheeks; and with Charlie facing that way the tears were silver instead of sepia, illuminated by moonlight coming through the window. That light seemed cold and harsh, at odds with the warm glow behind them.

Don spoke again, and as Charlie realized how near he was, he shifted slightly sideways, away from him. "I tried to think back to see if there was anything I might have done to lead her on; if there were any clues leading up to this. I talked to Robin about it – I told her everything, and she agreed that Amita was acting strangely at dinner the last night we all went out. Robin said that she was pretty quiet, and that when she did talk it was only to me –that Amita ignored you and Robin. Then when you brought her to the office that day, she kept moving closer to me – I think now she was flirting, but I didn't get it. I'm usually pretty in tune to that, but it just never occurred to me in her case. When she showed up at my apartment that evening, the whole thing completely blindsided me. That is the only thing I have to say in my defense, Charlie. I hesitated; I was slow to act because I was shocked and didn't think it through. I thought afterward that I should have just pushed her away immediately, and if she went down, then she went down. It would have been no more than she deserved."

He paused. "Charlie, I am so, so sorry. Please believe me; I would never do anything like that to you. You mean way too much to me. I realize that your perception of what happened is probably a lot different, and that it might be hard to believe my story. The only other thing I have to convince you is a phone call she made to me when I was driving up to Watsonville, after I found out where you were. I recorded the conversation." He pulled his phone out, pulled up the recording, and hit play.

His voice, and Amita's, filled the room.

" _Eppes_."

" _Hi Don, it's Amita. I hadn't heard from you. Can you talk_?" At the sound of Amita's voice Charlie stiffened but he didn't move; he still stood in place, bowed slightly, with one arm across his middle and the thumb and forefinger of the other hand on his forehead, shading his eyes.

" _There's nothing to talk about – unless you want to talk about how you're going to apologize – to Charlie, to me, to Robin, to my dad, and anyone else you've dragged through hell in the past few days."_

" _Wow, that's a little harsh. All I was trying to do was show you how I feel. I didn't mean to hurt Charlie, and I sure didn't mean to hurt you – I thought you felt the same way._ "

" _On what grounds? I'm engaged to Robin – what in hell made you think that?"_

" _You know why – that first kiss we had. You can't tell me you weren't attracted to me –_ _you_ _kissed_ me."

" _Amita, that was way before you and Charlie were dating – it was years ago. I, frankly, had forgotten about it. Why would you think it was appropriate to go back to something that happened years ago and suddenly try to make it relevant? It's not – it means nothing to me now, and it meant nothing then. And you say you didn't mean to hurt Charlie? Are you kidding me? I'm on my way up to him now – he's been gone for three days, holed up in some place nearly drinking himself to death. Not that you apparently seem to care."_

" _I know it's unfortunate for him, but I can't help how he feels_. _He and I aren't right for each other – you and I are. And why do you care so much about him, all of a sudden? You two never got along that well. He's odd, and annoying, and you know it_. _He'll get over it. You can't let him dictate your relationships – you can't let him stand in our way_."

" _Amita, you just don't get it. I. Am. Not. Interested. In. You. And Charlie isn't standing in my way – he'll be there to stand by me when I marry the woman I love: Robin. Drop the bullshit, and work on your own marriage. Although if you do try to go back to Charlie after this, you sure won't have my support. If this is how you view a lifelong commitment, he's better off without you. And am I picking him over you? Damn right I am. Don't call me again."_

" _I need to see you. You'll change your mind – you know you will_ -,"

The call ended, cutting off Amita's tearful entreaty, and the recording stopped. Don put his phone back in his pocket. "Charlie – please – say something. Say you believe me, say you don't – hit me – I don't care – _please_ -,"

There was a long pause, and then Charlie said, "I believe you." The words were choked, and Charlie still didn't turn to face him, still didn't remove his hand from his face – he was struggling to control his emotions. It seemed as though the words broke the last vestiges of his self-control, and the thin shoulders began to shake. Don closed the last step between them and put his arm around him and breathed a prayer of thanks when Charlie didn't pull away. Suddenly, Charlie did just the opposite; he turned and hugged him, hard, desperately. Don could feel his tears dampening his shirt, and he hugged him back as Charlie tried to stifle a sob. Don's own eyes were tearing again – just like on the beach, when Charlie had collapsed – the sight of him in such pain evoked pain of its own, but it was tempered by a surge of relief. " _Thank God_ ," he thought.

Charlie finally let go and backed away, head down, wiping his face, and started talking, and he choked out through sobs, "I just don't understand what happened. She's been drifting away for weeks, and I couldn't stop it. Why is she doing this? I don't understand any of it." He finally dropped his hand from his face and looked up, apparently past the point where he cared about Don seeing him cry, the pain and bewilderment apparent in his face.

Don gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze, and said sadly, "I don't know, Charlie. People do crazy things when they are in love, or when they think they are, so it's hard to tell – but Charlie, has she seemed okay to you, otherwise?"

Charlie ran a hand across his face, and blinked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Don said carefully, dropping his arm and facing Charlie, "has she been acting rationally?"

Charlie stared at him; Don could see him thinking. "I'm not sure," Charlie said slowly. He began to talk, the words coming faster as realization dawned. "She _has_ been doing some strange things, out of the blue – like eating red meat, and a few weeks back, she started hanging out a dive bar with some people – I don't know who they are. She started drinking, and I think maybe she started smoking – I know she smelled like smoke when she came back at night from the bar. I just thought she was dissatisfied with our marriage – with her life – that maybe she was regretting getting married, and looking for space, or freedom, or something. I tried to talk to her about it, but she got upset when I did. The last night, she came in drunk, and when I suggested that we talk she screamed at me, then hit me with a lamp. She was hysterical."

It was Don's turn to stare. "She _hit_ you with a _lamp_?"

Charlie nodded. "I think she cracked some ribs. I went and slept in the solarium that night, and when I got up the next morning, I went into the bedroom to talk to her, hoping she had sobered up. She had gone, but she left the annulment papers." A shadow flitted over his face. "That was when I called you."

Don's first inclination was to ask him why he hadn't told him about all of this, but then remembered that Charlie had tried, at least once, although belatedly, from the sound of it. He frowned. "Charlie – I think that maybe she needs some help. All of this sounds so completely out of character – maybe it's just emotional stress, like you thought, but maybe it's something more serious. It sounds like she should be checked out by a doctor."

Charlie took in a deep breath and looked at him – revelation and worry replacing the sadness in his face. "I need to find her, and talk to her," he said urgently.

"Do you know where she is?"

Charlie's face fell. "No. The only place I can think of is Petey's." He looked up at Don. "Can you give me a lift over there? My car's still in Watsonville. You don't have to come in – you can just wait outside if you want."

Don frowned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Charlie."

"Maybe, but now I'm worried about her," said Charlie, his brow furrowed. "I think I need to at least see if she's all right. Have you talked to her since that phone call? She sounded really upset."

Don shook his head, firmly. "I blocked her. I'm not talking to her again, if I can help it."

Charlie fumbled for his own cell phone, brought up his contacts, and pressed the button for Amita. It had a picture of her face, smiling, and the sight of it turned Don's stomach. A message flickered on the screen, and Charlie's shoulders sagged. "She blocked me," he said. His look of concern deepened. "I really think I need to see her. And even if she seems okay, I still want to talk to her about what we do going forward. If it is really a mental health issue – maybe she can get help, medication, or something."

He didn't say it, but Don could read the renewed sense of purpose in his face, could see the hope in his eyes. He knew what Charlie was thinking – that there was perhaps a solid reason behind Amita's behavior, that maybe she could be treated; maybe they could save their relationship. Don knew it was worth a try, but he also had doubts. What if she was sane and all of her strange behavior was infatuation-induced? There was no treatment for that, other than marriage counseling – and it seemed that Amita had already made up her mind. And even if she was having some kind of mental health issue, what if she refused treatment – or it was unsuccessful? He was afraid that Charlie's hopes might be reawakening, only to be crushed. And especially tonight, facing her sounded like too much; Charlie looked thin and exhausted – still recovering from his ordeal. "Maybe you should just rest tonight, Charlie – maybe try to track her down tomorrow. She'll be on campus, right?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. Campus is no place for this conversation, and anyway, I don't want to wait that long. Maybe she won't be at Petey's tonight, but I'll bet someone there will know where she moved." He looked up at Don, resolutely. "If you won't take me, I'll ask Dad. I understand if you don't want to see her."

"No – I'll take you there if you want to go that badly. I can wait outside." ' _It's the least I can do_ ,' Don added, to himself. He was so damned glad that Charlie had accepted his story he would have jumped off a bridge if his brother had asked him.

Still, as they told their father where they were going – a very relieved-looking father to see them together – and walked out of the house, Don couldn't help but worry over Charlie's behavior. He had seemed to unconditionally accept Don's story, and had latched steadfastly to the idea that Amita might have a problem that could be fixed. He was desperate, on both counts – desperate for his relationship with Amita to be saved; desperate to have things as they were, including his relationship with his brother. It didn't seem healthy somehow – the fight they'd had on the front lawn years ago when Don had stolen Charlie's prom date somehow seemed more normal. Someday, when the dust settled on the final outcome of this and Charlie looked back on it, would he be so unconditionally accepting? Or would he feel that Don had capitalized on his emotional devastation; had coerced his forgiveness at a time when he was too upset to think rationally? As time passed, and in the cold light of reason, forgiveness might not be as forthcoming.

He stopped dead at the vehicle door when the thought hit him – Charlie hadn't actually _said_ he'd forgiven him. He'd said that he _believed_ him – there was a difference. Don fought down the uncomfortable thought; at least they were talking. That was half the battle. And that hug Charlie had given him had to mean _something_.

He got in the driver's seat as Charlie clipped his seat belt – now it was time for the other half of the battle – facing Amita. Don put the key in the ignition and glanced at Charlie as he did so. Charlie didn't look at him – he was looking forward, silent, his face set, composed now. Unreadable. Don frowned and put the SUV into gear, and headed toward the south side of Pasadena.

End, Chapter 12

 _A/N: Just when you think they are getting out of the woods, things take a turn for the worse… and I do mean worse._


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thanks so much to all of the followers and reviewers, and especially those of you who review each chapter - it is much appreciated._

Chapter 13

"She's here," said Charlie, as he spied Amita's car in the side parking lot next to Petey's. He felt anxiety start to build – warring with relief. He'd found her, at least. And the fact that she was out at the bar meant that she must not be contemplating doing anything rash, in spite of how upset she had sounded at the end of her call to Don.

Don pulled up to a spot on the curb, and Charlie opened the door and slid out of the seat before the vehicle had even settled in place.

"I'll wait here," said Don, and Charlie nodded and shut the door and hurried, still limping a little, toward the bar. The thought that all of his and Amita's issues might have a solid cause – one that could possibly be remedied – had, in the space of a few moments, pulled him out of despair and generated a glimmer of hope. He still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about Don letting Amita kiss him, no matter how brief it was, or about that initial kiss, long ago, but that story was infinitely preferable to Charlie's first premise – that they were having an affair. He believed Don – but even if he hadn't believed him, he might have accepted the story, because he wanted to so badly that it counted as belief. The relief he felt at hearing that his brother, at least, wasn't cheating, was immense, and somehow the thought that Don was on his side had given him renewed strength. He hadn't lost him, after all, and although Don's revelations had made him cry, most of his tears had been tears of relief. He would have loved nothing more at that moment than just to quietly reconnect with his brother, but worry over Amita drove him out into the night.

The problem was now down to just him and Amita – and maybe just Amita, if it turned out she was having some kind of mental health issues and it truly wasn't a problem with their marriage. He had gone from having no idea of what the problem was to a possible root cause. And after a lifetime of dealing with mathematics, he knew that the further one narrowed down a problem, the more solvable it became. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe all of her strange actions were a cry for help – and if he offered it to her, offered to stand by her no matter what, maybe that would be what she really wanted. Once she knew how unconditionally he loved her, maybe she would learn to love him back. He could be her hero again…

He pushed through the door and his footsteps slowed as he looked around. The place was crowded and noisy; he was in the main barroom, and there was another room to his right. He was a stranger there – and he felt like one; he was getting curious looks, and a young man at the bar sent him a scowl and walked away with a beer toward a doorway that apparently led to a back room. Charlie peered around the main bar and the side room, and not seeing Amita, made his way to the doorway that the young man had gone through. As Charlie walked across the floor he could see himself reflected in the mirror at the back of the bar – his face looked pale and thin, his eyes dark and uncertain. He looked inexperienced and younger than his years compared to the rough men in this crowd, and he straightened unconsciously, trying to look taller, tougher.

* * *

Derrick strode into the back room and handed Amita a beer, and murmured in her ear. "I think your ex is here."

Amita's eyes widened. "Charlie?"

Derrick nodded. "He's out front, looking for you. If he comes back here and you want rid of him, tell him you want to talk out in the back lot, where it's private. Once you get him out there, me and the boys will take care of him for you."

Amita nodded at him, gratefully. "Okay." The truth was, she was a little tipsy and was just starting to feel good, to feel a little more like herself after her deep depression of the day before. She had spent the entire evening pulling herself out of her funk, and she was feeling up and confident again. And now, more than a little annoyed. It figured, she thought; she was just trying to get back on her feet and the one person that reminded her of all her troubles was here looking for her - Charlie. He was so irritating – how could Don stick up for him? Charlie was the reason she wasn't making any progress with Don, she was sure – and she hated him for that. Her ears were starting to roar again – God, it was so loud in here. She shook her head to try to clear the noise, and weaving just a little, she walked over to Cassandra and Becca and Jess.

"Charlie's here," she announced, making a face.

They all looked at her. "You gonna talk to him?" asked Cassandra.

"Not if I can help it," Amita scowled. She took a sip of her beer, just as she spotted Charlie out of the corner of her eye. She felt a surge of something – irritation, anxiety – strange feelings whirling wild inside of her; the roaring intensified and she shook her head again.

* * *

Charlie stepped into the back room and immediately felt exposed. Nearly everyone in the room was staring at him – a group of young men near the pool table, and a smaller group of young women in the corner – and none of them looked friendly. He didn't care, though; he had spotted Amita standing over near the girls and he made his way over to her.

"Hi," he said, as he reached her. It felt like an age since he'd seen her, and he wanted so badly just to sweep her up in his arms and whisper in her ear that everything would be okay. He held back, of course; in part because she was staring at him with undisguised contempt.

"I was wondering if we could, uh, talk," he said, and for a moment it looked like she was about to say no, but then she sighed.

"Okay – but let's go out back."

He felt a small leap of hope at her words – her expression hadn't been welcoming, but at least she was willing to talk. Maybe there was some hope – and maybe if he could convince her to see some kind of therapist – mental health, marriage counselor, maybe both – they could work through this.

She opened the back door and stepped outside and he followed her into a small paved lot lit by a lone security light, and containing only a dumpster that squatted at the back in the shadows. There was no one out there except for them, and as she turned to face him, Charlie took a deep breath. God, he still loved her, so much. This _had_ to work... He put his hands together, in an unconscious gesture of supplication.

"Amita, first, I want you to know that I still love you. I know you aren't happy, and I want to help."

She scowled at him suspiciously. "Help with what?"

Charlie hesitated, trying to figure out how to frame the words. "I think you haven't been feeling well for a while – about our marriage, maybe about life. It might be good to talk to someone – you know, a professional." He paused, still searching for words. "I can try to find someone for you – a good psychologist or therapist -,"

Her scowl was turning angry, and her voice rose as she interrupted him. "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? You think I'm _crazy_?!"

The door creaked open behind them, and the din from the bar inside spilled out into the courtyard. A male voice said, "Amita, is this guy bothering you?"

Charlie turned. A group of four men had stepped outside and they were fronted by the man he had seen scowling at him, at the bar. They moved forward, and the three girls that Amita had been standing with inside clustered in the doorway behind them. Amita slipped from behind Charlie and moved around the men as they advanced, and she stopped behind them, still outside, but closer to the doorway. She turned back around to face Charlie, a strange expression in her eyes. Charlie caught a glimpse of her face behind the four men; he was now facing them alone, and he took a step backward, involuntarily.

* * *

Petey, the bar owner, frowned at his camera feed under the bar. He could see the scene in the back lot – four men advancing on one – the lone stranger who had come in earlier. It looked like a fight waiting to happen. Derrick, one of his regulars, suddenly broke off and headed toward the wall with the camera. He went directly underneath it, out of sight of the camera itself, and at first Petey thought that he was stepping aside, trying to stay out of the fight. But when the camera went dark, Petey knew otherwise – Derrick had just cut the power line; he was sure of it. "Assholes," he muttered, and he lifted his phone behind the bar and called the police.

* * *

Becca watched from just inside the doorway, frowning, as Derrick sliced the power cord to the camera – a quick jerk of the sharp blade – and closed his switchblade with a snap. He shoved it in his pocket and strolled over to the group of men. Cassandra's boyfriend Joey was there, and so were Justin and Carlos. Derrick strode to the front of the group and leered at Amita's ex-husband, Charlie. Or not ex, yet, Becca corrected herself. Amita had said that he had not signed the paperwork yet.

This was Becca's crowd and their turf, and she knew she should be on their side. She didn't like this, however, and deep inside she had misgivings. Charlie looked harmless – not nearly like the monster Amita had said he was, and over the past week or two, she'd started to have her doubts about Amita. She said the wildest things – and in the space of a few weeks had orchestrated the annulment of her marriage, had gone after her brother in law, and had quit her job – a job that had sounded pretty prestigious to Becca. Tonight, Amita had come in looking a little out of it, and then the head-shaking thing had started. She was not quite right. Still, she had been under a lot of stress lately, and this crowd did stick together…

She heard Charlie say, quietly, with just a hint of frustration, "I'm just trying to have a conversation with my wife," and then Derrick threw the first punch, a quick jab to the gut. The smaller man doubled over, and then the group descended with a quick flurry of punches.

Charlie ended up on the ground on all fours, gasping, and then two of them dragged him up by his arms while the others hit him again. Becca squirmed inwardly. " _All right, enough already_ ," she thought. Cassandra and Jess were starting to look disturbed as well, and Amita – well, Amita was shaking. She was standing just outside the door, her back to them and a few feet away so Becca couldn't see her face, but it was obvious she was in the grips of some kind of emotional turmoil. Then Derrick, who had been punching Charlie, stepped back and flipped out his switchblade.

Joey and Carlos, who had been holding the professor's arms, immediately dropped them, and Charlie sank to his hands and knees again, chest heaving, head down. Becca doubted that he had even seen the knife, but the rest of them had, and they all stared at Derrick, in shock. "What?" said Derrick; defensively. "Why not get rid of this puke once and for all? No one can see anything – I cut the power to the camera." He was smiling; a wild light in his eyes.

"Oh, my God," exclaimed Cassandra. "Joey, get in here, right now! Stay out of that!"

Joey shook his head at Derrick slowly, backing away and then moving around him carefully toward the door, and Carlos and Justin did the same. Becca felt a sudden surge of fear – if Derrick flipped out and stabbed this guy, they could all be liable if they didn't get the hell out of that back alley. "Hurry up," she said – "Get inside!"

She held the door and motioned them in, holding it open for just a split second, giving Derrick and Amita time to reconsider. Amita was still facing away from them, still visibly shaking, apparently transfixed by the scene in front of her, and Derrick's eyes narrowed as he looked back at Becca, and he gave a slight shake of his head – no, he was staying there. All of the others were now inside, and Becca took a deep breath and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I'm calling the cops," and slammed the door.

To the group inside, she said, "I'm calling 911. Go back to playing pool, you guys – and you were _not_ out there during the fight." She looked around at the group, fiercely. "That's the story – you went out and harassed him a little, verbally, and when he and Derrick started fighting, you went inside and I called the cops. Got it?"

They looked at her and nodded, stunned expressions on all of their faces. They were all thinking the same thing – they didn't want the guy to get seriously hurt – but if Derrick did something stupid, they wanted to get charged as accomplices even less.

" _Derrick wouldn't dare do anything more now_ ," thought Becca, as she punched 911 into her cell phone. " _He knows we're not backing him and that I'm calling the police. He'll have to deal with the punches he threw, but at least he won't do anything stupid_."

* * *

Don sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, still in his spot by the curb. The sight of flashing lights from an LAPD squad car suddenly came into view as the car came from around a corner, and Don straightened a bit, his eyes narrowing. His frown deepened as the car swung around right in front of him and pulled into an alley next to Petey's. No siren, just lights. An LAPD officer was behind the wheel– he looked young and was alone, and Don was out of his seat, trotting toward him, as the officer stepped out of his vehicle and turned off his lights. Don flashed his badge – "Don Eppes – FBI. What's going on?"

The officer took in his badge with one quick glance and nodded. "Mike Simmons – LAPD. We just got two 911 calls about a fight out in back of Petey's – one from the owner and one a few minutes later from a bar patron."

Don felt a jerk of unease – he couldn't see Charlie getting involved in a bar fight, but he could unwittingly walk into a situation. He felt a sudden, urgent need to check things out for himself. "I'm here waiting for my brother – he's inside. You need back-up? Bar fights can get a little crazy."

Mike nodded gratefully. "Actually, yeah. I'm just off rookie status – this is my first night out on patrol alone. I could use some help. There's another car responding, but they're going to be a few minutes. I'll go in first, and you can come in behind, maybe, and back me up."

Don nodded. "Okay – lead the way. If it looks like it's not too bad and you have it under control, I'll stay out of it – but I'll be there for backup if you need me."

* * *

The ground was spinning as he looked down at it from his hands and knees, and Charlie gasped for air. He fought back the pain and the vertigo and tried to raise his head. He realized that there were only two others out there now – the man from the bar and Amita, and the man had turned his head to look back at her. He said, "I can take care of him, Amita – just say the word. He won't bother you ever again."

At that moment, with a shock, Charlie noticed the switchblade glinting in the man's hand. His eyes went to Amita, who looked to be on the verge of a breakdown – she was standing there, shaking like someone possessed, her features contorted by some inner turmoil. Surely she would tell the thug to back off… The man glanced at him again and took a step forward, then looked back at Amita impatiently. "Come on, Amita – it'll be easy – I'll throw him in the dumpster, and come back later tonight and take him somewhere they'll never find him. We'll go inside and tell the rest of them he just left." There was still no response from Amita, and the man snapped, "Amita, if we're gonna do this, we need to hurry. The cops will be here any minute. Do you want me to get rid of him, or not?"

"Okay, Derrick, okay, just do it! Get it over with!" she suddenly blurted. There was desperation in her voice.

"Amita!" Charlie protested, his heart dropping in a free fall. He tried to stagger to his feet, his eyes on her as he tried to back away, but the man lunged and grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him toward him. "Amita – n-no -,"

The last word was cut off by mind-bending pain, as the man jammed his switchblade home into the center of Charlie's gut and twisted the blade. Through it all, the pain, the shock, the disbelief – he kept his eyes on Amita. If he was going to die, she would be the last thing he would see. In spite of the agony and the haze starting to envelope his senses, he could tell that she was not herself. And even if she _was_ making a rational decision, it wouldn't matter. He would go to his deathbed loving her.

End, Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. The cliffie continues...yes, I'm mean, I know._

Chapter 14

Officer Mike Simmons moved quickly down the alleyway, and Don followed. The officer was walking normally, not stealthily, but still he was quiet, and the traffic noises on the surrounding streets and the music from inside the bar muffled the sound of their advance. As they neared the back of the building, Don clearly heard the conversation from the around the corner.

" _Amita, if we're gonna do this, we need to hurry. The cops will be here any minute. Do you want me to get rid of him, or not?"_

" _Okay, Derrick, okay, just do it! Get it over with!"_

And then, Charlie's agonized cry, " _Amita!"_

Don's blood ran cold, and he charged around the corner right behind Simmons, who had obviously heard the exchange as well, both of them pulling their guns out as they ran. They came into view just in time to see Amita, standing close to the building, and a large man - the one she had called 'Derrick' - holding a struggling Charlie by the front of his shirt in the center of the back lot. The man's back was to them and he was partially blocking their view of Charlie, but they got around the corner in time to hear Charlie cry out again and see the unmistakable forward thrust of the man's muscular arm toward Charlie's torso – a movement that meant _knife_. "FBI! Drop it!" Don barked, and Simmons ran ahead shouting, "Police! LAPD! Drop it! Hands up!"

Derrick immediately let go of his victim and Charlie dropped to the ground. He landed on his side, curled in a fetal position with his arms over his middle. His face was white with shock and pain, but his eyes were still open, staring at Amita, who was shaking violently, and appeared transfixed by the sight of Charlie and by the blood that was seeping onto the ground in front of him. Derrick faced them, still holding the knife, and Don, his finger shaking on the trigger, barked, "Drop it, or I'll put a hole in your miserable head!"

Simmons had run forward and was closer to the suspect and was now advancing slowly, his gun extended, flipping his gaze warily once or twice toward Amita, who was to his left. He advanced at an angle, leaving the line of sight open to Don, his backup, as he edged closer. Still Derrick hesitated, trying to assess his chances, looking for an open avenue. Don and Simmons were blocking the exit to the alleyway, and Simmons had put himself in a position to cut off a run to the bar door. Derrick had nowhere to go. "You just stabbed my brother," snapped Don, who was also easing forward. "Don't think I won't put a bullet in you – just give me a reason!"

Derrick blinked and looked at Don and then down at Charlie in surprise, and at that moment, Simmons, with one fluid move, jammed his gun in his belt and darted forward, grabbing the man's knife arm with both hands. Don was there in two long strides, and for a moment a fierce struggle ensued – the man was powerful, and Don hissed as Derrick managed to twist their arms and dig the knife point into Don's shoulder. The pain was a catalyst, and the rage and fear building inside Don exploded. He brought his knee up hard into the man's groin, and it was over. Derrick doubled over with a strange sounding grunt, and Simmons easily twisted the knife out of his hand and handed it to Don – then cuffed Derrick, who had sunk to his knees. Simmons hauled him up to his feet and away from Charlie, walking him backwards to the building, and pushed him down into a sitting position, and then quickly unlocked the cuffs and re-locked them through a pipe that ran up the side of the building, to keep him there. Derrick just sat there, leaning forward and wheezing.

Don immediately dropped to his knees next to Charlie, whose eyes were still fixed on Amita. His eyelids were drooping; he was showing signs of shock. Don set down the knife and managed to gently pry his arms away from his middle enough to see where the blade had entered – in the upper part of his abdomen, two or three inches above his navel. Too low for the heart, thank God, but the wound was bad; Charlie was losing blood fast. Simmons had reached Amita and he grabbed her arms, and she suddenly seemed to come out of her dazed state. "Don!" she called, twisting as Simmons pulled her arms behind her and cuffed her.

Amita called again, "Don – please, I need you!" The cuffs were on now, but still she struggled, and Simmons had to hold her arms. Her voice turned desperate, imploring. "Don, it will be okay now, you'll see. I'm free – it will be just you and me. We're free!"

Amita's voice had risen, hysterically, and she was simultaneously laughing and crying, and for a moment, everyone's eyes in the courtyard were on her – Derrick and Simmons stared at her with disbelief and the half-fascinated, half-repulsed look that people reserved for the insane. Charlie's eyes had never left her – they were filled with pain and despair, betrayal – and love, Don realized with a shock. _He still loves her_. As if to affirm his realization, Charlie gasped, between gritted teeth, "Please – take care of her." He finally lifted his eyes to Don. " _Please."_

"I will, Charlie, I promise." Still on his knees, Don pulled out his phone and dialed 911, because Simmons suddenly had his hands full. Amita was trying to move towards Don, still babbling, and when Simmons did not release her, she began to wail and struggle – her movements getting more and more violent, her wails turning into screeches, writhing so hard that Simmons could barely hold her. She was in meltdown – a full psychotic episode, and Don had to raise his voice over the din to talk to the dispatcher. As he talked he kneeled over Charlie, putting pressure on his wound with his free hand. He identified himself and gave the location, and said, "We need two ambulances – we have a knife victim with a wound to the upper abdomen, bleeding profusely, and another having a psychotic episode who needs restraints. The scene is secure." His voice was fairly steady, which was a wonder, because his hands were beginning to shake as the adrenaline from the struggle wore off, and Charlie's dire situation sank in. Blood from his wound dripped down his own arm, unheeded.

It was only five minutes but seemed like hours when another squad car pulled up, followed immediately by the first and then the second ambulance. By that time, Amita seemed to have worn herself out; she had sunk to the ground in an almost catatonic state and sat there with her hands cuffed behind her, tears and mascara running down her face. Simmons gave orders to the two arriving officers like he'd done it all his life, directing them over to Derrick, explaining that he had witnessed him stabbing the victim. They unlocked the cuffs, hauled Derrick up to his feet and re-cuffed him, and one of them began walking him to the squad car, while the other began to survey the scene. Derrick looked sick, and Don suspected his green pallor was not just because of a knee to the groin.

The medics were there then, tending to Charlie, and Don, who had been applying pressure to Charlie's wound the entire time, stood to let them in. He flipped open his ID so that they realized he was law enforcement. His hands were covered with blood – with his own and with Charlie's. He tucked away his badge and wiped them on his shirt. As much as he hated to leave Charlie's side, he had promised him that he would take care of Amita – and right now, that meant damage control, if possible. Don stepped over to Simmons and said in a low voice, "What did you hear when you came around the corner?" He was hoping that maybe Simmons hadn't heard it all – because if he had, there was probably no hope for getting Amita out of this – she would be prosecuted for attempted murder, along with the man who had stabbed Charlie. Don was horrified at her actions, but he was also now fully certain that she was mentally ill, and he knew that her prosecution would devastate Charlie. If he could keep her out of jail and get her treatment instead, he would.

The other officer came to lift Amita to her feet, and before Simmons could respond, Don intervened. "That one needs to go to the hospital," he said, as the man pulled Amita upright. She swayed; her eyes blank. "Be careful with her, and make sure she gets to the UCLA psych ward. Tell the doctors I'll show up and explain." Simmons was eyeing him, and as the man gently walked Amita away, Don said quietly, "She's my brother's wife."

Simmons' eyes widened as he looked over at Charlie, then back at Don, and Don could see the indecision in his face. Simmons had heard her then, when he came around the corner; he had heard her tell the man to stab Charlie. Don had his answer.

"Don't worry about it," Don said, heavily. Simmons looked sympathetic, but Don couldn't and wouldn't instruct a cop to omit something from a report, even if the man was willing to – especially a new one. It would set the tone for the man's entire career and if he was the kind of man Don thought he was, it would weigh on him – whether the omission was ever found out, or not. He looked Simmons directly in the eye. "Tell the truth in your report – tell them what you heard." Then he jogged back over to Charlie.

The medics had him on the gurney and had raised it and were beginning to wheel him to the ambulance. "We're taking him to UCLA Medical Center," said one of them. He was calm, professional; a seasoned veteran, and this was obviously not his first stabbing. "Huntington is a little closer, but they're swamped tonight – they're dealing with a big accident. The trip is a just a few minutes longer to UCLA, but he'll get faster care once he gets there. There's a lot of blood, but I don't think any arteries were hit so we have the time."

Charlie's eyes were still open but without Amita to focus on, he was fading, and Don, with a sudden surge of fear, took his hand and walked alongside. He needed to keep his attention, keep him motivated. "She's going to be okay, Charlie – they're taking her to the hospital – the same one you'll be going to. You need to hang in there, buddy, because she's going to need you, you understand? When you get better, she'll need you to help her."

Charlie blinked at him, and then nodded, slowly. Blood was dripping down Don's hand onto Charlie's, and the medic gave Don a look. "Looks like you need a few stitches, yourself. Do you know him?"

Don nodded. "He's my brother."

The medic said, "You can ride with us, then – it'll be a little tight, but there's room."

"Thanks," said Don, gratefully.

As they got through the alley and out onto the main street, Don could see that the ambulance was pulled to the side of the street right in front of Don's vehicle and he stepped aside and dialed David Sinclair as they got Charlie inside. "David, I need a favor," he said. "Charlie was down at Petey's bar in Pasadena tonight, and he was stabbed." He spoke quickly, urgently through David's exclamation. "He's on his way to the hospital, and I'm going with him. We've got the guy who did it, first name of Derrick, but I want you and Colby to get down here and talk to the guy's friends. I think it's a group that Amita has been hanging out with. Someone from inside the bar called this in before it happened. Find out who the friends are and who called it in – I want them in for questioning. I want to know everything that happened leading up to this, and who was involved." The techs were motioning to him and he knew that a conversation with his father would take too long, and it was better his father didn't know how serious it was until he got there, anyway, so as he seated himself in the ambulance he quickly sent his father a text telling him that Charlie had gotten into a fight and that they were going to UCLA hospital, and that Alan should meet them there.

As the doors closed and the technician attended to Charlie, Don tried to sit back to stay out of his way, even as he eyed the blood on Charlie's torso. So much blood, and it was still seeping from the wound. He forced his mind back to his instructions to David. If he was going to help Charlie and Amita, he needed to know everything about her state of mind and her actions not only this evening, but also in the weeks leading to this horrible night. It was likely that their only hope of keeping her out of prison was an insanity defense.

As the technician finished applying a pressure bandage, he sat back, and Don moved forward and gripped Charlie's hand tightly as the ambulance began to move. Don's fears for him had been alleviated somewhat by the confident manner of the medical technician, but as the minutes ticked by, Charlie looked worse; more pale, less aware, his breathing more shallow, and Don began to worry again. Any efforts to keep Amita from being prosecuted would be pointless, if Charlie didn't make it…

Charlie mumbled, his eyelids flickering, and Don squeezed his hand, his throat tightening. "I'm right here, buddy. I'm right here."

Tears streaked down Charlie's face, and Don felt his heart contract in fear and sorrow, and he bowed his head. " _Don't go, Charlie_ ," he whispered to himself. " _Not now, not like this_."

End, Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Thanks again for your continuing support - your reviews keep me motivated to keep up! The last chapter was a bit short. This one is much longer – more than twice as long - to make up for it. I'm going to post again a little early because I live in south Florida, and Matthew is coming in - on the other side of the state, thank goodness, but we'll get some wind here and could get a power outage. Can't leave Charlie sitting in an ambulance..._

Chapter 15

The drive to UCLA Medical Center seemed to take an eternity. The last few minutes of the ride Charlie seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, and as soon as they got there the medics whisked him into the hospital, where the staff picked him up and hurried him into an ER bay. Don stood in the middle of the hallway, staring after him as the doors closed, until a middle-aged nurse said briskly, "Step in here, please. Sir? You're bleeding on the floor. Please step in here and I'll get a doctor for you."

He looked down to see droplets of blood dripping down his arm and off of his hand, hitting the floor with soft plops. He turned his head and saw the nurse indicating a curtained-off exam area – not a fully-equipped room like the one they put Charlie in – and realized that if he left the curtain open a little, he could still see the door of Charlie's room, so he obeyed her and went in and sat. An intern showed up almost immediately, took Don's name and started a chart. Then he gave Don a topical anesthetic injection near the wound site that hurt worse than the cut itself, but in a moment provided numbness and relief. Then the intern administered disinfectant, stitched him up and applied a bandage, and handed him a disinfectant damp wipe to get the dried blood off of his hands.

"Fairly superficial," he said, as Don shrugged back into his shirt. The sleeve of it was damp and soaked with blood; the edges of the stains were starting to get stiff. There was more blood on the front of his shirt – mostly Charlie's. "There didn't appear to be any muscle or tendon damage. But that was a good gash – took twenty stitches." He was starting to go into a spiel on wound care when the doors to Charlie's room suddenly opened and the team inside came bustling out with Charlie, who lay motionless under an oxygen mask on a gurney. Don got up and trotted over, ignoring the intern's protest, and zeroed in on a woman who looked as though she was directing the team's efforts.

"I'm his brother," he said, flipping out his wallet with ID, and he saw her take in his badge. "Where are they taking him?"

"Upstairs to surgery," she said. "He's got more damage than we can deal with down here. We've got a surgeon and a team waiting. He'll be up on floor 3 – you can go up to the waiting area on that floor when you're ready." Then she was off with her team, and Don was left standing in the hallway again, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.

This time he was pulled out of his thoughts by his father's voice. He turned to see him hurrying up the hallway, and to his surprise, two others were with him. Tapti and Sanjay Ramanujan, Amita's parents, were trotting along behind him. A nurse was scolding them, telling them to go back out to the waiting area, so Don stepped forward to meet them and guided them to a set of elevators near the waiting area doors. The intern who had been working on him saw him walk off, and just shook his head. "Check back in for your discharge instructions, and to give the front desk your insurance or payment information," he called after Don, and then sighed and hurried off.

Don marshalled the group near the elevators and pushed the button for floor three. They were looking at him expectantly, and for a moment he fumbled for words. It was hard enough to tell his father that Charlie had been stabbed, but what did he say to the Ramanujans? _By the way, your daughter's crazy, and she told the guy to stab him._ The door dinged and opened, and he said, "They took Charlie to floor three to surgery. There's a waiting area up there."

They stepped on, all of them with concerned looks on their faces, eyeing the blood on Don's shirt silently. Alan looked ready to explode, but he held in his questions. At floor three they stepped off the elevator and Don looked around for a place to talk privately. It wasn't hard – it was too late in the evening for any scheduled elective surgeries, and there were only two others up there waiting – a young anxious-looking couple who were huddled next to each other in a waiting area down the hall. Don led the way to a group of chairs away from the nurses' station. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he suddenly needed to sit down.

His father and the Ramanujans sat with him, and Alan said quietly, "What happened?"

Don ran a hand over his face and eyed the Ramanujans. "How much do you know of what has been going on?"

Sanjay spoke. "Your father called us two days ago, and told me that Charlie and Amita were having some issues, and that she seemed to be acting a little – ah – not rationally." Don saw Tapti flinch a little, and he could see more than just anxiety in her eyes – there was real fear there, and despair, almost as if she already knew what he was going to tell them. Sanjay continued, "It took a few hours to make flight arrangements, but we came straight here, and got in this evening and contacted Alan. He invited us over to Charlie's house – we arrived just shortly before you texted him. On the way here, your father gave us an update, and told us that Amita is trying to annul the marriage, and that she had moved out."

Don still wasn't sure they knew all of it, notably Amita's fixation on himself, but he proceeded anyway. After tonight, the rest of it might not matter much. He took a deep breath, and said, "Charlie wanted to talk to Amita, and he wasn't sure where she had moved, but he knew she'd made some new friends and had been hanging out with them at a bar in South Pasadena. I drove him there tonight so he could meet with her, and waited outside in my vehicle while he went inside. He ended up behind the building in a back parking lot – there was an altercation, apparently, and the police were called. An officer showed up, and I went back there with him. There was a man there with Charlie and Amita – and as we came around the corner, we saw him stab Charlie."

All of them gasped, and Alan's face paled. "What?"

Don nodded. "It was a single stab wound, but deep, about three inches above his navel. Charlie's in surgery on this floor right now." He paused, trying to figure out how to word what he had to say next. Damn, this was hard.

He looked at Sanjay and Tapti. "Amita is suffering from some kind of severe mental breakdown. I told them to take her here, to the psych ward. She's probably already here, but I haven't had time to check on her yet."

Tapti had started to cry, and Sanjay looked very near it as he put his arm around his wife. Alan wiped at his own eyes. Don looked at them and forced the words out. "I'm afraid she's in big trouble. When the officer and I came around the corner, we could hear the conversation between her and the man in the back lot. He was asking her if she wanted him to -," he had to stop for a moment. "– to kill Charlie. She told him yes."

They stared at him silently, aghast. Don went on, "I've got my guys on it, and I'm asking them to check with her friends on her behavior, trying to get some evidence that would support an insanity plea, but the LAPD officer heard her talking, too. I'm sure it will go into his report. I'm also going to talk to the D.A. – we go way back and maybe if he's convinced there's a solid defense case for an insanity plea, he might decide not to prosecute. However, if they decide to charge her and proceed with the prosecution, I'm not sure how much I can do. Even if Charlie doesn't press charges, the state can, because the officer witnessed the crime."

Tapti spoke for the first time, tears streaming down her face, her voice quavering. "That is why we came when Alan called – we feared she was becoming insane. You see, it runs in the family."

* * *

Don sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at his father. It was two hours later, and they were waiting alone – the Ramanujans had gone to the psychiatric ward to check on Amita, and hadn't returned. His father was silent, disturbingly so, and had retreated into himself. Don understood his fears, every one of them. First and foremost was the fear of losing Charlie, but even if he survived, there would be fallout from this for Amita, and Charlie would need to deal with that – and with the fact that she had tried to have him killed.

After calling Robin to tell her what had happened, Don had gone to the psychiatric ward himself about a half hour into the wait – it was only one floor up, and he wanted to see what Amita's status was. She had been out of control at the bar, then catatonic. He had seen psychotic breaks before, and he knew that sometimes people bounced right back to a relatively normal state, and sometimes they didn't. When he finally made it through the checks and security for the psych ward and reached her room, it was apparent that mentally, she was still gone.

She was in a high security room with a small viewing window. She wasn't in a straightjacket and her parents had been allowed in there with her, so she apparently had not been violent, but she was also very obviously not all there. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, and she kept pulling at pieces of it, taking a lock and stroking it and staring at it, as if mesmerized. Her father was talking to her, quietly, gently, but she didn't acknowledge his presence. She looked at once disturbing, a little frightening, and completely vulnerable. It was heartbreaking.

Don consoled himself with the fact that an insanity defense was a real possibility – although he knew well that insanity defenses were typically a last-ditch resort by the defense lawyers, because juries didn't tend to believe them. Contrary to popular belief, the conviction rate for criminals using the insanity plea was very high – a fact that had never bothered him before, until now. And treatment for the mentally ill in jail was woefully deficient. If Amita ended up in jail for the length of time associated with an attempted murder rap, and without proper treatment, they would never get her back, at least mentally. Even if she served her time and was released, the damage would be done. It was as good as a death sentence.

He went back down and sat with his father, who murmured, "How is she?"

"Not good," said Don. "She still seems pretty out of it."

Alan indicated his bloody shirt and the bandage peeking through the hole in his sleeve, apprehensively. "Are you okay?"

Don nodded. "I was cut – it bled a lot, but it was superficial. I got it when Simmons – the LAPD officer – and I went to subdue the suspect. I had it stitched up downstairs." He rubbed his forehead. "I guess I need to check back with the hospital staff at some point. I never gave them the payment information." Despite his casual description of the injury the painkiller injection he'd received was beginning to wear off, and his arm was starting to throb. Plus, once the wait had started, the horrible realization of what had happened had begun to sink in. He was terrified for Charlie, exhausted and miserable, and self-recrimination had reared its ugly head – he was convinced that had he gone in the bar with Charlie this wouldn't have happened – but he kept his feelings to himself. He had the sense that everyone – his father, the Ramanujans, and although they weren't aware of it, Charlie and Amita – was depending on him. He needed to be strong and stay on top of the situation, because by default, he was in charge.

Time passed – a doctor came out to talk to the young couple down the hall, and Don saw their smiles and tears of relief before they departed for the elevators. More time. Finally, four hours after they had brought Charlie up for surgery, a surgeon emerged from a door down the hall. He looked down at them and then walked toward them, calling out, "Eppes?" as he got closer. Alan and Don walked to meet him, and Alan said, "Yes – I'm Charlie's father and this is his brother, Don."

They met him in the middle of the hallway and the surgeon nodded at them, his eyes briefly resting on the blood on Don's shirt. He was a tall lean man of about forty, with wispy light brown hair. "I'm Dr. Stuyvesant. Charlie came through the surgery okay, although we had to patch up some of his large intestine, and actually had to remove some of his small intestine – a portion of it was too damaged to repair. Thankfully, there was no other organ damage. He lost a lot of blood, and needed several transfusions. He's stable now and they're pumping him full of their best antibiotics, but as is always the case in a bowel injury, bacteria can get released into his body from the intestines, and there is a chance of infection. His attending physician will give you more details, but they are going to admit him and put him in the ICU to monitor him for infection. If all goes well, after a couple of days they'll move him to a regular room. ICU is on floor 5, and you can go right there if you want – he'll be up there soon." At Alan's quiet nod, as he wiped away a tear of relief, the doctor continued.

"You should know that this is a somewhat difficult recovery. It is very painful while it is healing, and he will be cramping and will experience nausea in addition to the pain from his wounds. During the first few days, they'll give him some strong pain medication to alleviate the discomfort, and he'll probably sleep through a lot of it."

Alan frowned. "Is there any permanent damage?"

Stuyvesant nodded. "Due to the amount of intestine I had to remove, he will likely have some lasting issues from this injury, something called short gut syndrome. The small intestine absorbs most of the nutrients from food, so with fewer intestines, he may have a hard time taking in enough calories – he may find that he needs to eat more than he did before to maintain his weight. He will also probably have to take vitamin supplements for the rest of his life. Apart from that, he should be able to eat and function normally once he is healed. The hospital will assign him a gastrointestinal specialist who will monitor the healing process, and advise him on nutrition." He took in Alan's worried expression, and added reassuringly, "Right now, though, I just want you to know that the surgery went well, and my opinion is that he's going to be fine."

They thanked him and he walked off, and they headed immediately for the fifth floor. At length Charlie was wheeled up and into a room a room and they were allowed in with him, briefly. He was completely out, still intubated, and purple bruises were starting to show on his pale face. He looked thin and fragile already, and Alan sighed, shakily. "Charlie forgets to eat for hours on end – that's going to have to change. It could have been much worse, though, from the sound of it." He looked at Don, as if for confirmation.

"Yeah, Dad," said Don quietly. "It could have been a lot worse." He couldn't fight down the feeling, however, that the battle was just beginning.

* * *

Don was in the office the next morning.

He'd left his father at the hospital with Charlie at around three in the morning and had gotten a cab back to Petey's to pick up his vehicle. While he was there, he stopped inside to talk to the owner/bartender, Petey himself, who was cleaning up and closing the bar. Petey looked sour and angry and tired of questions. He said he'd been questioned already by LAPD and the FBI, but showed Don the short video from the back lot. Don had taken a good look at the faces, and had taken special note of the fact that Derrick had stepped aside and cut the video feed prior to the fight. That might weigh in Amita's favor – there was premeditation inherent in that act, long before Derrick had asked Amita whether she wanted him to hurt Charlie. It made Don feel a little better. They could argue that Derrick had harm in mind when he went out there, and that he coerced Amita into going along with him, not the other way around. On that note, Don went home, exhausted, and slept for four hours. He woke at eight, showered and went into the office.

When he got there, he was gratified to find David, Colby and Nikki all in the office already, preparing for interviews. Overnight, David and Colby had lined up all of the men in the video to come in and give statements except for Derrick Mason, and three women from the group, as well.

He and his team met briefly to plan the interrogation. Don assigned Nikki to the observation room to take notes, and she nodded and went off to prepare. Colby and David eyed him for a moment - Don could see tension, weariness and anger in their faces - and David said, "How's Charlie?"

"Okay, considering," said Don. "He's completely out - they have him heavily sedated. He lost a lot of blood and some of his intestines, but they say he should recover. They've got him in ICU. He was pretty beat up - they hit him before he was stabbed. Based on the bruising, I'm guessing there was more than one of them involved in that. There was only one guy out there when he was stabbed, however - Derrick Mason. Amita was with him, and Amita told him to do it."

Colby shook his head, anger darkening his face. "That's what I thought I read in the preliminary reports from LAPD. I figured the cop had to be mistaken."

Don shook his head. "No, I was there - we both witnessed it. The thing is, she's mentally unstable - she experienced a complete meltdown last night. Her parents got in last night, and they told us that mental illness runs in the family. I saw her afterward - she's still really out of it. I want to try to see if we can get enough out of these people to make a good case for an insanity plea. For Charlie's sake, I want to try to keep her out of jail and get her into a treatment program instead."

They both nodded, and Don said, "You two tag-team the men. I'll be in the room, watching, but I want you to handle the questioning. We'll take them one at a time."

There were three men involved besides Derrick Mason. Joey Cantucci, Carlos Moreno, and Justin Shire. Don stood in the room in the corner, anger swirling as each man denied doing anything other than telling Charlie to leave Amita alone. They each maintained that they left before the physical fighting started, and went back into the bar. Don knew otherwise, however. Don could see marks on the suspect's hands, bruises on their knuckles. Maybe Derrick had stabbed Charlie after they all had gone inside, but the rest of the men were at least accountable for assault. However, their stories were identical – almost too much so. Colby managed to rattle them a little by taking DNA swabs of their hands, especially the cuts and bruises, letting them know that they were looking for traces of DNA from Charlie Eppes, but none of them cracked. Finding any trace DNA, especially on hands that had probably been washed more than once since last night, was a long shot. The men didn't know that, but they also didn't change their story.

By the time they were done questioning the last man, Justin Shire, the three young women had arrived. Don glanced at the names – Cassandra Lewis, Rebecca Thompson, Jessica Albani. He looked at their faces as they sat in the waiting area, tense, scared, but resolute, and realized suddenly that this was a waste of time. They would all have the same story about last night – and what he really wanted was information leading up to the night, and especially about Amita's actions in the previous weeks. He stepped over to David and Colby, who were jotting a few notes at their desks and said quietly, "Let's do these three all at once."

"At the same time?" said Colby and he and David stared at him, surprised.

Don nodded. "I want them to spill on Amita, and how she has been acting over the past few weeks. I doubt they were involved in the assault last night – and if they're scared for their guy friends, they may cooperate. And I want you to introduce all of us – I want to see their reactions when they hear my name. If they recognize it, it's a sign that Amita was confiding in them."

They both nodded then, and Colby went to collect the women.

David offered the women seats and they took them nervously, all three lined up next to each other across the table from David and Colby. There was definitely a flicker of recognition and some interested sidelong glances at Don after Colby gave them their names and made it clear that they were federal agents – although Don reflected belatedly that it could be simply because his last name was the same as Charlie's. They might or might not know about Amita's fixation on him.

"Okay," said David, after Colby read the women their Miranda rights. "Let's get started. First of all, we're letting you know that none of you are suspects in the fight that took place at the bar last night. There is video footage just prior to it starting, and none of you are in it. We think you know what happened, however, and we are trying to piece together what led up to the event. The men who just left here are suspects in the assault. We have gotten DNA swabs from the bruises and scrapes on their knuckles, and we are going to analyze them for trace DNA from Professor Eppes. If we find it, we know they are lying and that they were involved in the attack, and they will be charged with felony assault." He didn't tell them that the police knew for a fact that the only people in the lot when Charlie was stabbed were Derrick Mason and Amita – letting them wonder what and who the words 'felony assault' pertained to. All three of them sent tense sidelong glances at each other.

"And of course," David continued smoothly, "if we find you knew anything about what happened last night and you withheld information, you could be charged with obstruction in a felony attempted murder; which in itself is a felony."

That hit home, and Colby stepped forward directly in front of Rebecca Thompson. He glanced down at his notes, then back up at her. "Rebecca Thompson – you go by Becca?"

She swallowed nervously, but answered with a hint of defiance. "Yes. "

Colby leaned forward slightly, one arm on the table. "Becca, our records indicate that you called in to 911 to report a fight at the bar last night at the same time the assault was going down. It came in just a few minutes after the bar owner made a call of his own. He saw what was happening on the video out back before it was cut off. Did you make that call?"

"Y- yes," said Becca. She shot a glance at Don in the corner, and he could read desperation in it, and something else that he couldn't quite place.

"We were all inside," Cassandra jumped in. "The guys were arguing, and Becca thought it looked like a fight starting, and called 911. Then they all came inside."

Don could feel the simmer of anger starting again at her lie, and he let it show as he moved forward and put both hands on the table, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. "Not all of them," he said, leaning forward, his face in Cassandra's, his eyes boring into hers. "Some of them beat up my brother, then they stabbed him."

Cassandra recoiled, but protested. "They weren't out there when he was stabbed."

"Right," said Don, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He stabbed himself." His voice rose, and he snarled at her. "My brother's in the ICU right now fighting for his life, and you're all lying, trying to save your scummy friends' asses. You're lying, and we can prove it."

There was a choked silence, and Don let that sink in for a moment and then straightened, and said more quietly. "We know who stabbed my brother. I came around the corner with the LAPD officer just as it happened, and I saw it. What I really want is what led up to it – what you can tell me about Derrick and Amita, in the days leading up to last night. If you can give us good information and are prepared to testify, we may not pursue felony assault charges concerning the fight. If you continue to lie, you and your friends will all be charged with withholding evidence in a felony attempted murder case, which as Agent Sinclair explained, is itself a felony, and the men will also be charged with felony assault. It's pretty simple. Give us the dirt on those two, and all the rest of you walk, including your guy friends."

There was a moment of silence, then Becca's chin lifted and he could see determination in her face. "Okay. I'll talk." Don could see uncertainty on Cassandra's and Jess' faces, but they kept silent. Becca continued. "Derrick was hot for Amita. He was since the first day they met."

Don felt his gut twist, but he kept his face neutral. Had Amita been having an affair with Derrick on the side? She hadn't been thinking rationally; it was possible. "And did she reciprocate?"

Becca eyed him. "You mean, did she like him back? No. I don't think so. She talked to him, but she made it clear she was interested in someone else." She paused, looking at Don directly. "You."

David and Colby couldn't help themselves, they shot glances at him, but Don kept his eyes on Becca. "Describe Amita's behavior in the weeks prior to last night."

Becca shot a glance at Cassandra. "We just met her a few weeks back. Cassandra cleaned her office at school and talked to her almost every day. She knew her before Jess and I did."

Don looked at Cassandra, who said, "I would talk to her sometimes at the end of the day. She seemed a little stressed out. One night I invited her out for a drink. She started showing up - maybe three or four days a week."

"What do you mean by 'stressed out'?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I don't know. She seemed kind of like, ADHD, or something. She would be up one day, and down the next. It seemed like she got distracted easily and she would get bored with her work at school. She told me so. Then all the stuff started happening with Charlie."

"What stuff?" pressed Don.

Cassandra shrugged. "She told us she wasn't happy in her marriage. That Charlie was boring, and dry and controlling. That he stalked her. He showed up at the bar once – we saw him in his car outside, but he didn't come in. That was the night he and Amita had the big fight."

David spoke up. "What fight?"

Cassandra said, "She went home that night around nine, and a little while later she called me. She said Charlie threatened her, and she had to fight him off with a lamp."

Colby and David sent another look toward Don, and he had to bite his lip to keep from commenting. He had the real story from Charlie – he would give it to them later.

Becca snorted. "She was always saying crap like that."

"What do you mean?" asked Colby, and the other two girls looked at Becca.

"She was always going on about how terrible he was, but I think she was just looking for sympathy. The couple of times I saw her husband, he didn't look threatening. He looked nice – and like, concerned about her. I think she was full of shit. She wanted to be the center of attention and for everyone to feel sorry for her, especially Derrick. He called Charlie the 'little bastard,' and kept saying he'd take care of him for her."

Don fought back a wince. He was sure Charlie's stabbing wasn't premeditated on Amita's part, but the story from Becca surely made it sound that way. This wasn't going as he'd hoped. He said, "So you think Amita told stories?"

Jess nodded. "Yeah, crazy ones, like the lamp story."

"She _is_ crazy," Becca agreed. "She annuls her marriage to a cute guy who makes good money, moves out of a damn fine house, and goes chasing after his brother. Then she quits her job, and tells Derrick to stab her ex. That's a nutcase, if I ever saw one."

Just like that, the statement turned in Amita's favor. Becca's declaration summarized in one neat package Amita's recent irrational behavior. Don took a breath, processing that last statement. Amita had quit her job? Charlie hadn't mentioned that – maybe he hadn't known. Don made a mental note to talk to her boss at Cal Sci. "Was there anything else that made you think she was not acting rationally?"

Cassandra cocked her head. "She did have a lot of ups and downs. She would be up, happy, full of energy one day, and depressed and angry the next."

"And then there was the head-shaking thing," said Becca.

"Head-shaking thing?"

Becca nodded. "That just started in the last week or so. She would rub at her ears and jerk her head, like she was hearing things, or the noise bothered her. Of course, she _was_ under a lot of stress." She cocked her head and looked at Don shrewdly. "She isn't basically a bad person. I don't think she came up with the idea to tell Derrick to get rid of her husband. He _is_ kind of a shady dude, seems like he carried around a lot of anger. Derrick either came up with the idea himself, or someone else talked Amita into leading Derrick on and getting him to do it – and I'm sure that would have created a lot of stress in her mind."

Don frowned. "You think someone talked her into conning Derrick into it? Who?"

Her gaze was direct, and challenging. "Who else? The guy she was having the affair with. You."

The questioning was recorded and Nikki had been in the observation room taking notes, and that transcript was part of an official investigation. Just like that, Don was off the case – and was now a person of interest in the investigation.

End, Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks for your reviews and comments - they make me smile._

Chapter 16

Shortly after the interview, Don was called upstairs by his boss, Assistant Director Wright, who regretfully informed Don that he had no choice. Don would be removed from any investigative proceedings concerning the attempt on Charlie's life, and would likely undergo questioning by the DA and Internal Affairs. Wright told him that no one believed Rebecca Thompson's accusation, and that the interviews would be simply formalities – but that once the issue was raised, the law enforcement agencies needed to perform due diligence. However, while all of that went on, Don could not be a part of the investigation. Any hope he had on keeping on top of the prosecution's investigation of Amita had dimmed considerably. And he was facing the discomforting situation of formally being considered a suspect – and the annoyance and stress of going through questioning by LAPD for the DA's office, and by IA.

He knew that his boss and Colby and David were firmly in his corner – although Becca's statement had thrown both David and Colby for a loop for a moment. And Nikki was looking at him with wide eyes as he exited the interrogation room. All of it was extremely humiliating. And on top of that, he had to break the news to Robin; since she worked in the DA's office, he was sure she would hear of it and he wanted to make sure she heard it from him.

He stopped at her apartment after work, after calling in to the hospital to check on Charlie. Her sister, Ree, was there, and she took one look at his face and made up some excuse about checking out an art exhibit for an article she was writing, and took off. Robin came right over and hugged him, holding him for a long moment, and then said, "Come here and sit down. Tell me what's going on. You look terrible."

She led him over to the sofa, and he sat and said, "I'm not sure where to begin." He had already called her from the hospital the evening before and told her what had happened at Petey's, but he hadn't talked to her since then.

She said, "How's Charlie?"

"Okay, I guess," he sighed. "I called my dad on the way here. Charlie's still out – they've got him under some heavy sedation. He's showing some slight signs of infection, but apparently that's almost expected with a gut injury. Dad said they're telling him that it's under control."

"And how is Amita?"

"Still the same, I guess. She's very out of it. She's not really catatonic – but she isn't responding to conversation or questions. Dad said that her parents told him that the doctors have started her on some medication." He sighed, and looked at her. "They took me off the case. I'm officially a suspect."

He was expecting an exclamation, but she just nodded. "I heard at the office today. I talked to Bob Patrick – he thinks it's bullshit, but he has to show due diligence. They'll do a full investigation."

"Did you tell them anything?" Don was glad to hear that Bob Patrick, the D.A. and Robin's boss, was skeptical of Becca's story. He had a solid working relationship with the man, but it was still good to know that he sounded open-minded.

She shook her head. "Just what I told you when you came to tell me about Amita's advances – that you didn't have time for an affair – you were with me nearly all of your off-work hours. Bob knows you – and he knows the situation – that Amita is in the psychiatric ward, and that her behavior has been erratic. That being said, even if the DA's office is sympathetic, IA can be nasty sometimes. I know there is no evidence of an affair, but do you have anything to show that there was _not_ an affair? Or conversely, anything that could throw a bad light on the situation?"

"I don't know." Don rubbed his forehead, wearily. Robin was a lawyer, and she would have a good idea of the questions they might ask him, and he knew she was trying to prep him. But he was worried about Charlie, and pissed off and sore and tired, and not in the mood for this.

"Okay, let me start, then," said Robin, ignoring his hesitation. "There was the fact that you began a search for Charlie immediately after he fled L.A. If you were having an affair and really wanted him out of the way, you could have let that search slide – he might have harmed himself or drank himself to death, and your problem would have been solved. Instead, you actually went in and pulled some strings the night it happened, trying to find him, and went upstate after him and brought him home as soon as you found out where he was. Not the actions of someone who wished him harm." She cocked her head. "What did the officer see, and what happened after the stabbing? I'm curious to know what the LAPD cop will say."

Don's brow furrowed. "Afterward, I told the officer who Amita was. I asked him what he heard when we came around the corner, but from his expression, I knew he had heard what I heard, which was Amita telling Derrick Mason to go ahead when he asked her if she wanted him to kill Charlie. I told him to tell the truth in his report – exactly what he saw."

She frowned. "Actually, that could be taken either way. If, hypothetically, you had convinced Amita to use Derrick to carry out a hit, and you came on the scene and you knew Derrick looked guilty, just as you had planned, of course you would want the officer to document what he saw. You were really asking the question because you were concerned about them prosecuting Amita, but if they wanted to show you were behind it, they could see it as you trying to find out what they would say and spin the story to your personal advantage. That actually was not a good question to ask."

"I know," sighed Don. "I thought that myself, as soon as I said it – that I shouldn't be asking him because it might be viewed as pressuring him. But I did follow it up immediately with telling him to report out exactly what he saw, and I walked away. I didn't try to coerce him or even wait for an answer."

"Okay, what else?"

Don thought for a moment. "I didn't pull any punches with Derrick Mason. I told him to drop the knife or I would shoot him – and I told him that I was Charlie's brother, and he looked surprised – so at least it should have been obvious to the officer that there was no connection between me and Mason."

"The prosecution would say that there didn't need to be a connection between you two – just between you and Amita, and her and Mason. That one would depend on how the LAPD officer reports it out – did he think you made an honest effort in your response to the situation – did you truly help him out? Did he have any doubts concerning the way you responded? You were involved in the struggle, so that was good – you were actually hurt yourself. From what you told me last night, you called for an ambulance immediately and obviously stayed with Charlie afterward and tried to slow his bleeding. So your response was solid."

Don rubbed his forehead, trying to think through the sequence of events. "When the backup got there I told them to take Amita to the psych ward at UCLA Medical Center."

"That could go either way, as well. You were showing concern for her, but as what – as Charlie's wife? Or as her lover?"

Don scowled at her. "You make it sound bad."

She smiled, and patted his hand. "Don't get me wrong – I'm completely on your side. I'm just trying to be the devil's advocate. That's how we prosecutors look at things." She cocked her head. "You can't rely on Amita's testimony to help you – she isn't in her right mind and seems to be fixated on you – but the prosecution couldn't really use anything she said that might incriminate you anyway. In her current state of mind, the judge wouldn't allow it. When Charlie wakes up, his version of the story should corroborate yours. Do you think he believes you?"

"He said he did."

"Is there anything else – anything before that night that would be in your favor?"

He smacked his forehead, and fumbled in his pocket. "Of course – there was the phone call. Amita called me when I was on the way up to get Charlie, and I recorded the call – I thought it might help me out when I explained to him what had happened."

He pulled his phone out and hit play, and Robin listened carefully, then took a deep breath and smiled. "Now _that's_ what I'm talking about," she said.

* * *

Don left her apartment feeling a little better about the pending investigations, and thanking God for both that cell phone recording and for his wife to be. He was still out of sorts, however – the whole investigation was irritating, his arm was sore, he was tired, and above all, what had happened to Charlie weighed heavily on him. All of that was on his mind as he drove to UCLA Medical Center, and made his way up to Charlie's room.

His father was still there and looked exhausted, and Don talked him into getting something to eat with him in the cafeteria and into going home for a few hours of rest. After he saw him off, he went back upstairs. As long as there was only one of them in the room, sitting quietly, the nursing staff seemed to bypass the enforcement of the ICU limited visitation rules, and so he camped out in a chair next to Charlie's bed. Charlie was still out cold, under heavy pain medication, and they had left the breathing tube in as a precaution because the meds slowed his respiration and he had lost a fair amount of blood. Other than the presence of the tube, his face was relatively uncovered and Don studied it, noting the pale skin marked with bruises, the thinness of his face.

As he watched him, Don reflected that if someone had told him that either one of them – Amita or Charlie – would one day go insane, he would have without question assumed it would be Charlie. With brilliance sometimes came mental instability, or at the least, eccentricity. Charlie more than once had retreated from reality when he was under stress, when their mother had died; once years ago when Don had gotten shot. Both times, Charlie had gone into his garage with his chalkboards and worked incessantly on an unsolvable math problem, completely refusing to consider anything else – a state that bordered on insanity, a temporary mental break. Since then, Don had harbored a secret fear that one day Charlie would retreat into that world and not come out again. It was still not out of the question – in the past few weeks, Charlie had been through the most stressful events of his life and would encounter worse yet when he became conscious again. Even if his body healed, would his mind hold up?

Suddenly the trials of past few days overwhelmed him, and Don stifled a sob, rubbing a hand over his face. Grief and guilt pressed down on him like a weight. He should never have brought up the possibility to Charlie that Amita might be insane when he was talking to him last night. He should have just apologized, made his case, let Charlie listen to the recorded message. Don had been so eager to vindicate himself, so eager to blame it on Amita's state of mind. If he hadn't brought that up, Charlie would never have begun to worry about her, would never have thought to go looking for her at the bar in the middle of the night. He could have talked to her on another day, at a better location. He'd be home now, instead of bruised and battered and cut, fighting for his life. And the kiss, God, the kiss… it had started it all. Don groaned. If he hadn't been so slow, so stupid – if he'd seen that kiss coming and headed Amita off instead of standing there and taking it, like a deer in the headlights, everything would have played out differently. He could have talked over her strange advances with Charlie; they could have dealt with Amita's aberrant behavior as a team. Ever since that kiss, events had spiraled out of control, and Don felt helpless to stop them.

He was shooed out once when the nurse came in to change Charlie's bandages, and he watched through the window outside the room, wincing as he took in the jagged row of stitches in his brother's abdomen. He remembered his own stabbing, a few years earlier, remembered the pain and the feeling of pulling and tightness as his wound healed. He'd had complications with bleeding afterward – a minor emergency as it turned out, but they hadn't had to remove any organs. He wondered how much of an impact that the removal of intestine would have on Charlie. The surgeon had made it sound like something of a concern.

The nurse finished changing the dressing on Charlie's wound and checked his readings on the monitor, jotting down some notes on an electronic pad. She was frowning, and as she came out and said, "You can go back in now," Don looked at her.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She made a small expression with her mouth – tight lipped, a smile that didn't quite make it. "His temperature is up a little. The doctor will probably order some blood work."

* * *

'Something wrong,' ended up being something of an understatement. Charlie's fever spiked that night, and for the next three days, his infection raged. It was excruciating to watch – he sometimes broke through the heavy veil of narcotics and opened his eyes, but he was out of his mind with fever, thrashing weakly, fighting against the respirator and his IV lines so much that he had be restrained. Their father was beside himself. The Ramanujans joined the vigil from time to time, along with Colby, David, Larry, Robin, and Don – when he didn't have sessions with the District Attorney and Internal Affairs – and even Ree. When Robin visited, her sister Ree came as well, in a show of support. The ordeal lasted through the weekend before the infection began to subside and Charlie began to turn around. That weekend, David and Colby went up to the inn to get Charlie's car and brought it back down to L.A. – a gesture that Don hugely appreciated.

In the meantime, Amita's doctors had decided that by the beginning of the next week, they would move her to a longer term care facility for psychiatric patients. She was improving slowly and starting to interact again, but those interactions were sporadic and her responses not always appropriate when she engaged in conversation. One afternoon in the hospital hallway, Tapti and Sanjay pulled Alan and Don aside. They settled in a row of chairs against the hallway wall.

"We feel we owe you some explanation concerning Amita, at least what we know," said Sanjay. He looked tired, and his gray hair appeared to have whitened further in the space of a few days. He sighed and looked at his wife, and Tapti nodded at him, somberly.

"We have a mental affliction that runs in the family, on my side," said Sanjay. "It has manifested in my brother and a nephew – a child of my sister. Before that, it was a great uncle. It had seemed to only affect men, until now, and usually began to show in their twenties. Amita is in her thirties, and a girl, and we thought she was under no threat from this. It appears we were wrong."

"She never mentioned it?" asked Tapti. "Or did Charlie ever mention it? We told her she should tell him of the family history before they married, and certainly before they tried to have children."

Alan shook his head. "If she told Charlie, he never brought it up. What is the illness?"

Sanjay shook his head. "The doctors are not exactly sure. It has elements of bipolar disorder – with periods of euphoria and energy and periods of depression, impulsive behavior, mood swings. It is much faster cycling than normal bipolar disorder, however – the cycles can occur over days or hours rather than weeks. It also has elements of schizophrenia – hallucinations, delusional thinking – along with severe bouts of anxiety. The doctors here concur that they are seeing all of that."

Don frowned. "How did they treat your other family members?" He could feel a sinking sensation in his gut, which accelerated as he saw Tapti begin to cry.

"There is no real treatment," said Sanjay huskily. "The afflicted members of my family all have gotten the best of care. It is true that on average, U.S. hospitals are much better than those in India. For those who have money, however, like our family – that money buys superlative treatments in India – cutting-edge medicine. Even those doctors, however, have not been able to reverse the course of the disease, or halt the progression. The medications provide moments of clarity at times - my brother would one day be normal, and remember all, and then he would go off again for weeks at a time in his own world. But he has regressed to the point where he is confined to a wheelchair, and he no longer eats. His mind has decayed to the point that soon it will cease to function at all, and his body with it. It has taken many years to get to that point, and he is older, like me, but -," He broke off and waved a hand helplessly.

Alan looked stunned at the news, and he finally managed to speak. "You are saying there is no real treatment."

Tapti was crying harder now, and she rose and stepped away from them, moving down the hallway. Sanjay's eyes followed her, and then he looked at Alan, sadly. "None, so far, I am afraid. My nephew seems to be following the same progression – his days of lucidity are growing fewer, and his hallucinations and manic and depressive episodes are growing longer, and worse. Our doctors have consulted with the best doctors across the globe, with few results. It is basically -," he choked slightly on the statement, "a death sentence."

The words floated through the quiet of the hallway, a soft somber decree, and silence fell.

End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Obviously, one of the main themes in this story is mental illness. A facet of that subject that fascinates me is the line between sane and insane. Many, many people have mental health issues (depression, anxiety, ADHD, bipolar disorder, etc.) and would not be classified as insane. In so many instances where a mass murderer snapped and suddenly killed others, there was no one definitive moment or even a good way to assess beforehand whether the person was insane and a danger to others, or not. Amita's decline was masked by what seemed to be a romantic obsession. Other people close to the mentally ill person automatically look for rational reasons for their behavior, not necessarily out of denial, (although that could be part of it), but I think it is more true that if they are rational, they simply automatically project that rationality on others, until the behavior gets so abnormal that they are forced to recognize that the person is indeed mentally ill... That is aggravated by the fact that the mentally ill person also does not see themselves as ill - and also the fact that unless it is an extreme case, no family member can make treatment decisions for an adult mentally ill person until they are deemed incapable - the person's behavior must decline to the point where they need to be committed, before the family is allowed to step in. Truly, I think, it is one of the most heartbreaking types of illness imaginable for those close to the person who is ill._

Chapter 17

Ree Brooks gazed pensively at the slight figure in the hospital bed through the viewing window in the wall of the ICU room. In the glass, she could see transparent images of herself and her sister, Robin – petite and blonde, tall and dark. She resembled her mother, and Robin, their father – and the difference was so profound, most people were amazed to find that they were sisters.

Ree's job gave her leeway in her schedule; as a freelance writer she could travel anywhere to do an article on any subject at any time she wished. She had originally intended only to stay in L.A. two weeks or so – but the unfolding crisis in the Eppes family had made her decide to stay longer and support her sister. Not that Robin needed support – she was a rock – but even rocks could get unsettled. Robin had been confiding in her during Ree's visit – something she was not wont to do, and it made Ree feel good, as if they'd arrived at an equal footing in their relationship. As the younger sister, she tended to look up to her successful, independent older sibling – and from what Ree could gather as Robin described the Eppes brothers' relationship, that perhaps it was the same way with them. She had never met Charlie, but already she felt a kinship with him.

She had been at the hospital before with Robin, but today was different – they had removed Charlie's breathing tube and were easing him off his pain medication, and he was finally awake. Don had told them they would be moving him to a regular room today. Ree and her sister had made plans for dinner after Robin was finished at the office and they had decided to take a detour beforehand to stop in to see him. As Ree looked at him now, Charlie still looked groggy and weak, but those eyes were open – and Ree felt a little jolt of electricity run through her as she looked at them. They were beautiful eyes, even though they were filled with pain – dark, intelligent, and unguarded. Unlike his brother, Charlie's face showed every emotion plainly - it was an open book. A really, really beautiful open book…

Robin was saying something, and Ree was jolted out of her reverie. "Oh – uh – what?"

Robin was smiling at her. "Are you in there? Let's get out of here – we'll give them some time together."

Ree protested. "I thought we were going to visit – you said just a quick hello, to offer our support."

Robin shook her head. "I know, but look at them," she said gently. "Now is not the time. We'll come back some other time." She started down the hallway.

Ree glanced back at the room as she reluctantly moved after her sister. She could see Don and Alan speaking gently to Charlie, could see the distress in his face. It was a private moment. Robin was right, of course - but somehow, Ree didn't want to leave. She didn't notice her older sister's speculative smile as she hurried to catch up, her heels clicking briskly in the hospital corridor.

* * *

"I don't understand," said Charlie. His voice was weak and raspy from the breathing tube, and he sounded upset. "There must be a diagnosis."

Alan glanced at Don, and then turned back to Charlie and said gently, "They're working on it, Charlie. She's out of the hospital at a psychiatric facility associated with UCLA Medical Center, and she has at least three doctors working with her. Her parents are here and they are working with her, as well. There has been some improvement, but it will be awhile before we know anything. In the meantime, you need to work on your own recovery."

Don was silent as he watched Charlie settle reluctantly back into his pillow. He and his father had talked beforehand and had agreed not to tell Charlie of the grim possibility that Amita had an incurable inherited form of mental illness – at least not yet. Charlie's doctors had agreed, saying he wasn't strong enough for that – and in spite of what Sanjay had said about his relatives getting the best of care in India, Don was holding out hope that American medicine would have some solution. Or that maybe Amita's case wouldn't be as severe – maybe treatment would make a difference with her, when it hadn't with her cousin or uncle. She hadn't shown symptoms until her thirties, after all – almost a decade later than her male relatives. Maybe her case was treatable; maybe it was even something different. There were still some unknowns. No sense making Charlie more upset than necessary, yet…

He watched his younger brother close his eyes, and took a deep breath. At least Charlie was recovering – they had been through some scary moments during the weekend. To see him lucid and talking was a profound relief. There would be time to tell him about Amita, later.

* * *

Don was actually feeling optimistic as he walked into Bob Patrick's office, later that afternoon. His taped phone call with Amita had effectively cleared him with both the District Attorney and Internal Affairs, and although he was still deemed too close to the case to be assigned to it, at least he was no longer under investigation. The fact that he wasn't working the case hadn't stopped him from making an appointment with the District Attorney, however. This was a personal call, and Bob Patrick was bending protocol slightly to see him. Don and his team had contributed to the D.A.'s impressive win rate in court, and Bob Patrick knew it. He and Don went way back – and they also liked each other, on a personal level.

Bob rose and shook hands as Don entered the office; they exchanged greetings and Don stepped backward and shut the door behind him before he sat. Before he could speak, Bob said, "I'm assuming that you're here concerning Amita Ramanujan."

"Yes," said Don, as he settled in a chair. "Obviously, my family is hoping that she won't be charged, based on the reason of insanity. She's undergoing treatment for an inherited mental condition." He scanned Bob Patrick's face, trying to read it. It was relatively neutral, but Patrick wasn't smiling. Don felt his gut tighten.

"You read Officer Simmons' report?"

"No," admitted Don. "I haven't had access to it."

Bob Patrick sighed. "He didn't sugarcoat anything, I'm afraid. It wasn't misleading or vindictive or anything like that. If anything, it might help her insanity plea – he gave plenty of detail about her condition, and his opinion that she was in the midst of a breakdown. I think he was sympathetic, but he told the basic truth. Unfortunately, the basic truth implicates Amita."

"Charlie won't press charges."

Bob Patrick shook his head. "It doesn't matter, I'm afraid. Since this was witnessed by a police officer, it becomes a case of the state against her, regardless of whether or not the victim presses charges. I really don't have a choice. I'm sorry, Don, we have to proceed with criminal charges. I can't decline to prosecute her, especially since we are prosecuting Derrick Mason. His lawyers will be sure to bring up Amita's role in this."

Don feared that would be his answer, but as he heard it, he felt desperation rising. This couldn't be happening – if Amita was convicted, she would never get proper care in prison, and the process would devastate Charlie. "You know the insanity plea isn't generally very successful in court – even when the person is truly insane."

"I know," said Bob quietly. He paused for a moment. "I understand her situation, and that her parents are here. I know Amita's parents have citizenship in India. I'm going to tell you something, but if anyone asks, you did not hear it from me. If Amita was released to their care and they took her to India for treatment, I could make sure that we waived extradition, and she could escape prosecution. There are two downsides to this. One is that she could never return to the United States, because then she would face charges. There is no statute of limitations in California for attempted murder, so she could be arrested as soon as she returned, no matter how long she was away." He paused.

"And the other?" pressed Don. He already didn't like what he was hearing, and Patrick's next words made his heart sink.

"She and Charlie would need to dissolve their marriage," said Bob Patrick. "As long as they are married, she would be released to Charlie's custody, not her parent's. He is not an Indian citizen, and unless he applied for citizenship in India, he wouldn't be allowed to move her there even if she was a citizen herself, because she is incapable of making a rational decision. The laws concerning this between our two countries are complicated, but as a mental patient, she needs to be sponsored by an Indian citizen responsible for making decisions regarding her care for them to allow her to enter the country for treatment. Even if Charlie applied for Indian citizenship and was accepted, the process would be long – too long. Our court proceedings against her would commence before he could gain citizenship status."

He paused. "I understand that prior to this incident, Amita filed annulment paperwork, and I spoke to the lawyer who drew it up for her. He stated that she seemed sane to him at that meeting, and the paperwork was witnessed and notarized, so the filing seems legal. If Charlie were to sign that paperwork and give up his rights as her spouse and guardian, her parents would become next of kin, and would then get custody and would be free to take her out of the country for treatment, and as I said before, we would not extradite." His expression was rueful. "It's a dodge – not a good one, but it's the best I can do. It would at least keep her out of prison and give her a shot at some real treatment."

Don was silent – he couldn't speak if he wanted to. It was too terrible to comprehend – the only way to save Amita was for Charlie to give her up. It would crush him.

He finally found his voice, and he rose. "I understand. Thanks for the advice."

Bob rose and held out his hand, and clasped Don's firmly. "You're welcome – and I'm sorry. Good luck."

* * *

Amita Ramanujan shook her head in distress and rubbed her eyes. She grabbed a lock of hair and began to stroke at it, rocking. "No," she quavered. "I don't want to talk about him, and I don't want to see him."

She was upset with her doctor – he _would_ bring up Charlie. Reality had been coming back to her in bits and pieces – brief moments of clarity were interspersed with the strange, whirling thoughts and sensations that would intrude on her consciousness, leaving her silent, spaced out and entranced as she watch the visions flit through her mind. Sometimes there were beautiful visions; sometimes they frightened or angered her, but always they occupied her whole attention. Lately, however, perhaps due to the anti-psychotic medications, they would recede for periods of time, and then she was back in the real world.

She was dimly aware of what she called the 'happening;' the night when the fight happened at Petey's. She could remember the roaring in her ears, the voices in her head, which felt like it had been ready to explode…she tried to push it out of her mind, but mention of Charlie brought it all back. There was anger at him, like before, but she didn't quite understand anymore where that anger had come from. There was sadness, and guilt – he was hurt, she remembered, and she knew she had been a part of the reason for that. So many negative emotions; and all of them were associated with him. Every time she remembered him, she could feel the pull back into the world of visions. She could understand that she did not want to be there – that it was better to be in the real world, but she also understood that she could not stay in the real world, if she thought about Charlie. She would get too upset, and the visions would intrude. So she refused to think about him, or speak about him. And although she was aware that mixed with the hate and sadness and anger in her mind there was still love, she knew that he could no longer be a part of her life, her memories.

* * *

Three days later, Charlie eyed the group outside his hospital room door, frowning.

It had been a week since the stabbing. He had been moved from the ICU to a regular private room three days ago, and they had started him on clear liquids yesterday. Even though that was the extent of what he could handle, at least he was eating on his own – frustratingly frequently. His stomach still hurt and he had little appetite, but thankfully, the nausea was receding. He had met with a doctor, a gastroenterologist, who had informed him that he now had something called 'short gut syndrome,' a condition he would have for life. The small intestine that he had left was reduced in size and would absorb nutrients from food only at a reduced level, so he would need to eat more food more frequently, and take vitamins. He took in the information distractedly and with a lack of interest. He was much more concerned about seeing Amita.

Adding to his frustration, he could get very little information about her. Everyone, even his father and her parents, seemed intent on giving him vague answers when he asked about her. He had assumed it was because they didn't really know anything themselves, but the group gathering outside his door made him second-guess that assumption. Something was up. His father, Don, and Amita's parents, Sanjay and Tapti, were all there, and they were talking among themselves quietly. Then his father said something, and they all turned toward his doorway and began to funnel into the room. They looked solemn, and Charlie tensed as his eyes searched their faces.

Unexpectedly, it was Tapti who broke the silence. She came forward and sat in the chair by Charlie's bedside, and laid her hand gently on his. "Charlie, we have something to tell you," she said quietly.

Charlie looked at her and at the rest of them, then back at her. "Is this about Amita?"

Tapti nodded. "Charlie, did Amita ever mention to you that we have mental illness in our family – on Sanjay's side?"

Charlie stared at her, and slowly shook his head. He felt a twinge of anxiety flutter in his chest. "No."

Tapti closed her eyes, sighed, and opened them again. "We do. Sanjay's brother and Amita's cousin both have it – they are male, and it hit them in their twenties, so Amita probably thought she would not have any issues, since she is past her twenties, and is female. Sanjay and I thought that, as well. Unfortunately, it seems that is not the case. The doctors who have been examining her agree that this is likely the cause of her strange behavior recently. I was hoping she would have told you before you considered having children."

"We hadn't started trying yet – she said she wasn't ready," Charlie said. He thought back to her reaction in the car several weeks before when he'd asked her if she was pregnant. No wonder she had seemed reluctant to take that step. "So, if the doctors understand what is wrong, they can treat her, right? What kind of mental illness is it?"

Tapti shook her head sadly. "It defies categorization. It has elements of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, but is not either one. We have had an excellent team of doctors in India working with Amita's uncle and cousin, but they have not been able to either define it or cure it. They have medication that can slow the progression and it provides periods of lucidity, but no cure."

Charlie felt his heart plummet. Progression? It could get worse? And no cure? That sounded ominous, but he lifted his chin, defiantly. "Then we'll just need to add our U.S. doctors to the mix, and find a way to treat it."

Tapti shook her head. "We already have – there has been a team of very good doctors studying her for a week now, and they concur with our specialists in India. The doctors here agree that her best chance for recovery would be to go to India, to the team that has the most experience with this. Those doctors are already in contact with specialists worldwide, as they seek to combat the illness. Charlie, here is the thing – the psychiatric facility will only release her to the person responsible for her by law, which, according to your country's laws, is first, the spouse, then parents, then other family members. We would like you to sign the annulment papers – then her father and I become the closest relatives, and they can release her to us. We can then sponsor her treatment in India."

Charlie stared at her, incredulous. "What? No! I married her in sickness and in health – I will take care of her. She's my wife!"

Tapti looked uncertainly at the others behind her, and Don stepped forward and walked to the chair on the other side of Charlie's bedside and sat. Charlie could feel his heart thumping, could feel the sting of tears starting in his eyes. What was this? They were all ganging up on him, apparently – did they think he couldn't handle it? Handle her, handle this setback? Well, they were wrong. He loved her, no matter what. He would never give up on her.

"Charlie," said Don, "there's something else." He spoke softly, his voice heavy. "The D.A.'s office is probably going to charge her for her role in the stabbing. They don't want to, but they don't have a choice because a police officer witnessed it – it becomes a state case even if you, as the victim, don't press charges."

Charlie shook his head. "There is a whole team of doctors that are apparently willing to certify her as insane. They can't do that."

Don shook his head. "Yes, they can. They will charge her, and she can try an insanity defense, but that type of defense really isn't that successful. And the irony is, if the treatments help her and she appears sane by her trial date that will actually work against her. A jury won't understand how out-of-it she was when it happened. It's a risk she can't afford, Charlie. If she goes to prison, she will never get the specialized care she needs."

Don paused. He looked tired, thought Charlie, tired and sad. Then Don said, "You can't repeat this, but Bob Patrick pulled me aside and gave us an out. If you sign the annulment papers, custody of her automatically reverts to her parents. If they have custody, they can take her to India. The U.S. only bothers with extradition in extreme cases, and hers would not be one of them. As long as she stays out of the U.S., she would be safe from prosecution. And she could get the treatment she needs."

"No," Charlie said. The word came out as a whisper. He could feel tears welling up, feel his throat tighten. If he did what they suggested, he would lose her, in every sense of the word. He sat up straighter, blinking, as a thought occurred to him. "I can apply to become an Indian citizen. I'll take a sabbatical, and I'll go there with her."

Don shook his head again. "Bob and Patrick and I discussed that. The citizenship process would take too long – it can take months, and Bob is trying to drag this out, but we only have weeks at the most before he has to start proceedings. And, well - ," he paused, and looked helplessly at Tapti.

"Charlie," Tapti said. "Amita has started talking again, but she is still not in her right mind. She has made it very clear that she does not want to see you. She gets very upset and actually starts to regress when you are mentioned. The doctors think it would be very detrimental for you to be near her now." Tears were glimmering in her eyes. "I know this is very hard, and it is for us, as well. Sanjay and I view you as our son, and our hearts break for you both. But if we are going to give her the best chance, we feel there is no choice."

"No," said Charlie. His voice shook. "No."

Alan finally spoke, his voice laced with sadness. "Charlie, you don't have to make a decision today. Take some time to think about it, son. But we had to give you the situation, so you understand what is going on. "

Charlie could feel tears starting in earnest now, and he shook his head, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging; his throat too tight to speak. His father's words suggested that he had a choice to make – but there really wasn't one. He heard his father saying something – he heard 'get some rest,' and 'talk about this later,' and then they were gone, shuffling from the room in a slow, sad progression.

End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: You might want to get some Kleenex for this one, just in case._

Chapter 18

Later, Charlie could barely remember the next two weeks. Somehow he got himself onto solid food –albeit soft – and was released from the hospital. His own physical condition didn't matter to him, other than the fact that he knew he needed to get stronger if he was going to be able to take care of Amita. Her release was contingent on his; since he hadn't signed the annulment papers the medical facility was required to release her to him, and they couldn't do that until he was released himself.

He knew what his father, the Ramanujans, and Don were all thinking – that he should just sign the papers so she could be released to her parents – and he knew, deep in his heart, that it was the right thing to do for her. He kept holding onto hope, however, that something would happen – that the DA would find some loophole and not charge her; that with continued treatment, she would regain some of her sanity and want to see him again. He couldn't bear the thought of her leaving, possibly forever, without a chance to even say good-bye – and knowing that the last lips that hers had touched were not his.

The end of his procrastination came abruptly.

* * *

Don strode up to the front door of the Craftsman, tried the handle, and finding it locked, knocked. He had keys, but somehow felt he should allow Charlie to answer – allow his brother to let him in. Charlie hadn't done that – at least in the psychological sense – yet, and Don still didn't quite know where he stood with him. The entire horrible sequence of events had seemed to start with that kiss – and even though now they knew that Amita's problems had started long before that and he sensed that Charlie understood that Amita had initiated the contact, Don still wasn't sure he was forgiven for his part in it. He had actually been avoiding the Craftsman for that reason for the past two weeks; and now stood on the doormat of what was once his home, like a salesman, or an unwelcome visitor.

His father answered the door, and Don muttered, "Forgot my keys," at his raised eyebrows.

"I've been keeping it locked," said Alan. Don knew that his father had been staying in the main house again to keep an eye on Charlie and to make sure he ate, and he also knew what he was implying by the locked door. After nearly losing Charlie to a stabbing, none of them felt entirely secure even though Derrick Mason was behind bars, awaiting trial. The chance that any of the rest of the crowd from Petey's would try to harm Charlie was slim – but who knew if there were others? Amita had spun nasty stories about Charlie to the crowd at the bar – maybe she could have unloaded tales on other sympathetic ears. For all they knew, there was another Derrick Mason out there.

They moved into the living room, and Don took a deep breath. "I need to talk to Charlie. The D.A. is bringing charges against Amita tomorrow."

"Ah." The word held a mixture of dismay and resignation. Alan shook his head sadly, and Don could see the heartbreak in his eyes. "He's upstairs, in the solarium. That's where he's been spending most of his time lately."

Don nodded and headed for the stairs, feeling like an executioner. At the top, he rapped lightly on the solarium door and waited, and then, hearing no response, pushed on it, and quietly ascended the half-flight of stairs into the solarium.

He found Charlie asleep on a sofa, lying on his side with one thin arm draped over the edge, his dark lashes suspiciously damp. Even in sleep he looked sad and vulnerable, and Don hated to wake him, especially for the news he brought. But he had no choice; they needed to move fast if they were going to get Amita out of the country. He shook his shoulder gently. "Charlie."

Charlie started awake and blinked dazedly. His brow furrowed as he looked up at his brother, and he shakily raised himself into sitting position. His T-shirt, rumpled by sleep, fell down into position around his gaunt frame. He still looked so thin, so weak. He looked up at Don, puzzlement creeping into the sadness on his face.

"Charlie, I hate to disturb you, but something has come up. Bob Peterson – the D.A. – called me today as a courtesy. He's going to press charges against Amita tomorrow." He saw consternation on Charlie's face, and the beginning of a protest, but he kept talking.

"The story leaked out to the local press somehow – we think someone at the bar has been talking. Now that the press has gotten hold of the story, they have been calling Bob Peterson, asking him why the delay in charging her – and some of their questions are implying that they think he is trying to sweep this under the rug because Amita is part of our family – and related to law enforcement. He has no choice – he can't delay anymore. And she is stabilized enough that the doctors are ready to release her into a treatment program. They were holding off until you were well enough to sign for her, but if the police come for her, they will have to release her to them, instead. Even if you go to get her and bring her here, the police will come here to serve the warrant. We can't protect her, Charlie. You need to sign the annulment papers so that she can be released to the Ramanujans – and we need to do it today, before the charges are filed. The Ramanujans are busy finding a private jet to take them back to India, and arranging for a doctor to accompany them." ' _In the hopes that you will come to your senses_ ,' Don didn't add.

He waited, and when Charlie bowed his head and didn't respond, said, "Please, Charlie. You know it's her only chance to get proper treatment."

"I know," said Charlie huskily. He ran a hand over his face and lifted his head, and Don cringed at the despair in his eyes. Then Charlie straightened, and said, "I'll sign the papers on one condition – I get to see her to say good-bye."

Don took in a deep breath. "Okay, buddy. I'll talk to the Ramanujans." He paused, and said softly, "I'm sorry, Charlie."

Charlie grimaced slightly, an unreadable acknowledgement of the apology, and lowered his head. It could have meant 'thank you,' and it could have meant 'I hate you' – Don had no idea which. He was acutely aware that of the two of them, he had been the last person to kiss Amita – and now she was leaving, and there appeared to be no way to rectify that. No matter how forgiving Charlie was trying to be, that had to hurt, and Don feared that it over time it might rankle more… He was pulled from his thoughts as Charlie rose unsteadily and went over to a folder on the desk in the corner, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "This form says I need a witness," he said, dully, as he picked up a pen.

"Wait, Charlie – I talked to the lawyer earlier - it has to be witnessed _and_ notarized," said Don. "I'll get things set up with the Ramanujans and call the lawyer and have him meet us with a notary. You can sign it there, when you meet with her." As he spoke, he headed toward the stairs. "I'll make some phone calls. I'll let you know when we have it set up."

Charlie said nothing. He set the pen down and turned away to face the solarium window, his shoulders slumped; his head down.

* * *

Alan Eppes stood in the kitchen where he'd stood so many times before, especially after Margaret died – in front of the kitchen sink. Normally it was a happy place for him, a haven. Today, he stood there with his hands on the edge of the sink, his arms propping his upper body, his head down. In a short time, he and Charlie and Don were leaving for the airport, where his youngest son would finalize an unthinkable contract – to let his wife, the love of his life, go.

It was true, Alan had lost his own beloved wife, not by choice, and at the time it seemed unbearable. Now, he was counting his blessings – he'd had many wonderful years with her, and had gotten the opportunity to raise the boys to adulthood with her – years and memories that Charlie had expected, but would never have, with Amita.

He was sad for himself at her departure – he loved her as a daughter, or at least he loved the person she was before she became ill. For Charlie, he knew, it was so much worse. And deep inside, Alan was worried about him, too – he was so fragile, physically, right now. He had been pushing himself to get well, or to at least attain the appearance of being well, and Alan knew that a lot of it was charade. Charlie hadn't been eating or sleeping as he should to recover. Physically, he was barely hanging on. And mentally – well, Charlie was brilliant – his brain was powerful beyond normal human capacity, but also with its flaws. His mind was like a mountain, impressive, but with tiny cracks and fissures and fault lines that could come apart under stress and dissolve the mountain into rubble.

Alan sighed and shook his head. How had they gotten here? He knew now that Amita's illness had been evolving over weeks, months, even, but the awful events of the recent weeks had been quick and startling, leaving them no time to absorb the situation, to adjust. Even if Charlie survived this, physically and mentally, Alan wondered if he could ever move on from such trauma. It would leave lasting scars – those on his body could be overcome, but Alan wasn't as sure about the emotional wounds. Would he even allow himself to move on, if Amita's illness became the slow inevitable decline that had afflicted her family members? As long as she was alive, would Charlie hold out hope that they could one day be reunited?

The door to the kitchen was pushed quietly open, and Alan heard Don's quiet voice behind him. "Dad, it's time. We have to go."

* * *

Charlie heard the knock on the solarium door and Don's voice, and roused himself. After Don's first visit, he had showered and shaved and put on a nicer shirt, and then, exhausted from the effort, had retreated back to the sofa, lying there in a sort of anguished stupor. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying dizzily for a moment. Could a person pass out from sheer grief, he wondered? Then he chided himself as his eye fell on the table next to the sofa, and on the uneaten sandwich and unopened nutritional drink that were supposed to be his lunch. His father must have brought them up while he was showering, and he hadn't noticed them until now. More likely, his vertigo was due to the fact that he hadn't been eating. He straightened. He was going to get one opportunity to see her, and he needed to toughen up a little, to be strong, or he would lose his chance. He picked up the drink, opened it and choked down a swallow or two. Then, making a face, he set it down, grabbed a jacket and picked up the annulment papers, and headed down the solarium stairs, and then down the stairs to the living room.

He was greeted by a heartfelt hug from his father at the bottom, and he shrugged on his jacket. It was a tweed blazer that he loved, and he thought dully that he probably shouldn't have worn it. He might never want to see it again, because it would remind him of today. He sat in the back seat of Don's SUV and leaned against the door, silently, all the way to Burbank Airport.

The day was cloudy and a little breezy, a little cool, and Charlie shivered as he stepped out of the vehicle. They weren't going inside the terminal; a small jet waited on the tarmac, and inside the chain link fence, Charlie could see them standing: Amita and her parents and four other people. The lawyer, the notary public – and at least one of them was Amita's doctor, Charlie guessed. The small jet's engines were already running and he could see two figures in the cockpit – pilots, checking instrument readings and readying the aircraft for takeoff. Charlie swallowed.

There was a security official at the gate in the fence, and they all had to show him identification before he let them pass inside, with a nod. A sudden gust of wind made Charlie stagger and he felt Don's hand land on his arm, but his eyes were fixed on Amita. Her parents and the others were huddled against the wind, but Amita was facing it, letting it blow in her face, her head tilted up and her long dark hair streaming behind her, silhouetted against the dreary sky. She looked calm, almost in a dreamlike state with a slight smile on her lips, and Charlie wondered if she had been medicated for the meeting.

He could feel tears already stinging his eyes, and he fought hard for composure as they reached the group. Sanjay and Tapti greeted him quietly, but the greeting didn't extend to a hug – they wanted him to keep his distance from Amita, he was sure, their affection for him trumped by concern over their daughter and her reaction to seeing him. They kept glancing behind them at her nervously – and Charlie was just as nervous. What if she went into a meltdown again? Maybe this had been a selfish request on his part – but he so longed to say good-bye, to hold her, maybe even to kiss her one more time…

Amita was standing a yard or two behind the rest of the group, staring at him, and he wrenched his gaze from her as the lawyer reached out a hand and introduced himself. Then the lawyer said, "First things first – I'm sorry for this, but we really need to get these papers signed and witnessed for the protection of my client. Then Amita's doctors, who are representing the hospital, can officially release Amita to the custody of her parents."

The two other men reached out to shake Charlie's hand as well, and one of them said, "I'm Dr. Marks, and with me is Dr. Aggrawal. We have been treating Amita – I will facilitate the release and bring the release documents back to the hospital, and Dr. Aggrawal will accompany Amita to India. She has stabilized and is actually doing better – we don't anticipate any issues on the flight, but if there are, she will be in good hands, we assure you." The wind was blustery enough that Amita could not possibly have heard him from where she stood, but he lowered his voice. "You should know that we have sedated her in preparation for this meeting and the flight. She may not seem herself – I am not sure if she will recognize you."

Charlie slowly pulled the annulment papers out of their folder, and the lawyer handed him a pen. He took it with a shaking hand and looked down at the paperwork; he didn't dare look up at Amita, or he might not go through with it. As it was, he wavered just a moment, staring down at the page, aware of the anxious eyes on him. They were all counting on him to sign the document; to do the right thing for her – even though it felt like the wrong thing… He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, and he took a deep breath, and signed on the line. Then his father gently took the papers from him and he and Don signed, as witnesses.

The lawyer nodded kindly and reached for the papers, and then handed them to the woman by his side, the notary public, who pressed a seal to the signed page and signed and dated it, and with that brief gesture, their marriage was over. Charlie struggled to breathe for a moment, and then, as the doctors huddled to sign the patient release paperwork, he looked up at Amita.

She was still standing behind her parents, staring at him; the dreamy expression still on her face, and he wondered if she even knew who he was, but then she took a half step forward and said clearly, "Charlie," with a slight smile. She didn't seem quite normal – but suddenly, he didn't care. He couldn't let her go without holding her, with knowing that the last person she had kissed was his brother, and that at their last interaction she had told a man to kill him. He couldn't live with those being his last memories of her; maybe she wasn't quite normal at the moment but she wasn't normal then either – and right now she was closer to the woman he had known and loved than in any time during the last weeks. "Please -," he began, nearly choking on the word, then managed to continue, his eyes still on her, "Can I go over to her to say good-bye?"

He saw concern on her parents' faces, and the doctors paused in mid-signing of the release papers and looked at him, and then at her. "I'm not sure if it is a good idea," said Marks, but Aggrawal said, in a voice tinged with an Indian accent, "She has been sedated, and she looks okay to me. She said his name - she is aware of who he is. Let us ask her. "

Marks shrugged. "You're the one who will need to deal with her if it doesn't go well."

Aggrawal spoke up and called out to Amita. "Charlie would like to speak with you, Amita, before you leave on your trip. He would like to say good-bye. Is that okay with you?"

Charlie looked at her, past Sanjay's and Tapti's anxious faces, and Amita stared back for a moment, and then gave a slight nod. "Yes," she said.

Charlie took a deep shaky breath and looked back at the doctors, and Dr. Aggrawal nodded at him. "Go ahead," he said quietly. "But if she starts to resist or get upset, please back away quickly."

The Ramanujans moved aside and Charlie stepped forward, his legs shaking, his eyes locked on Amita as he walked toward her, and by the time he reached her, his whole body was trembling with need, with love, with grief. "Amita," he said. "I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you. You know I will always love you." The words came out barely audible, just slightly louder than the sound of the wind that whipped at her hair, and blew cold on the tears that were streaming down his face.

She cocked her head, studying him, and reached out with a forefinger and touched one of the tears, as if fascinated by it. "I know," she said simply. He could see just traces of emotions in her eyes, dampened by the heavy veil of the drugs they had given her.

He stared at her for a moment, drinking in her face, and then whispered, "Can I kiss you?"

She cocked her head again, considering, her responses delayed, and then unexpectedly, gave him a small smile. "Yes," she said, and so he stepped forward and took her in his arms, and kissed her, gently, slowly – clinging to the moment even as he felt his heart would burst, the familiar taste of her lips sending such a surge of longing and despair through him that he thought he would die on the spot.

At the kiss, he heard an exclamation from behind him and so he tore himself away and stepped back reluctantly and released her, still gazing into her eyes, ignoring the approaching footsteps. She was staring back at him with a puzzled look on her face, as if trying to remember something, but she wasn't upset. Her calmness tempered Dr. Aggrawal's words as he reached their side, and he simply said gently in Charlie's ear, "It seems she is taking it okay, but please, be careful, and finish what you need to say."

He stepped back, and Charlie could feel the grief welling up inside him, more intensely than anything he had felt yet, almost too much to bear. His voice shook. "I will always love you, Amita. If you feel better, you can write me or call me, and I will come to see you, right away."

She still looked somewhat puzzled, but said agreeably, in an almost childlike manner, "Okay."

"Good-bye," he whispered, and she nodded at him.

"Good-bye, Charlie."

He stepped back, shakily, and stood staring as Sanjay and Tapti and Dr. Aggrawal walked forward towards her. They nodded at Charlie as they passed, Sanjay briefly gripping his shoulder, and Tapti, with tears in her eyes, blew him a kiss. Sanjay put his arm around Amita and gently turned her, and they walked away, toward the plane.

* * *

Don had to turn away as Charlie said good-bye; in spite of all the horrible things he had seen during his career, this he couldn't bear to watch. His father was crying, and Don swallowed his own tears and glanced at him, and then took a deep breath and looked back at Charlie.

The lawyer, the notary and Dr. Marks were passing them on their way out, and Amita and her parents and Dr. Aggrawal had reached the jet and were boarding. Charlie stood alone on the tarmac, still facing the jet, his body shaking, buffeted by his clothes as the wind whipped around him. A few cold fat drops of rain began to fall, and Don walked toward Charlie, and his father fell in behind him.

Charlie made no acknowledgment of their presence as they reached him, and as Don gained his side he could see that his brother was trembling, still staring fixedly at the jet with tears streaming unheeded down his face, even though the passengers had already gone inside and the door was closing. Their father laid a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder, still wiping at his own face, and Don said gently, "Come on, Charlie, let's go."

Charlie said nothing; he just shook his head, and Don looked at Alan, who sighed and shrugged. So they stood there while the jet revved its engines and taxied several yards away toward a landing strip, until it began its take-off and lifted into the air, until it became smaller and smaller and disappeared into the shelf of gray clouds overhead. The entire time Charlie just stood there, his body held stiffly against the wind, shaking, acknowledging nothing else around him – not Don or their father, not the wind, not the cold sporadic raindrops – his eyes fixed on the plane until it vanished and remaining on that spot in the clouds as if it would reappear.

He looked disconnected from reality, from all traces of rational thought, as if he were on the verge of some kind of breakdown himself, and Don swallowed the fear that rose inside him and gently took his arm. "Come on, Charlie, we need to go. She's gone, Buddy."

Charlie finally turned away, the stiffness left his body, and his shoulders slumped. He didn't make eye contact; instead he dumbly allowed Don to lead him back toward the vehicle, and Alan fell in on his other side. They made it outside the gate, past the security guard who had opened it for them, and were nearly to Don's SUV when Charlie staggered, swayed, and collapsed.

Don had laid a hand on Charlie's arm as they approached the vehicle, and he managed to maintain a hold on the shoulder of his jacket as his brother went down, delaying the fall just enough so that he could grab him with his other hand and ease him to the ground. He gently laid him flat on his back and Charlie's head rolled to the side, his face dead white. Alan uttered an exclamation as Don's fingers fumbled at Charlie's neck, searching for a pulse. "Call an ambulance," said Don tersely, his voice shaking. "Call 911, or get that security guard to call in help."

"What? What's wrong?" Alan simultaneously reached for his cell phone and looked back for the security guard, panic stricken.

Don felt his brother's neck again, and tried to fight down terror. He positioned himself over Charlie and tilted his head back, just the way he'd been trained. Giving a solid start-up blow to Charlie's chest, he began compressions. "He doesn't have a pulse."

End, Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Sorry about that last cliffie – couldn't resist._ _Thanks again to all of you who are faithfully reviewing this – I very much appreciate it._

Chapter 19

Don paced in the hallway outside the UCLA Medical Center ER waiting room, where his father sat slumped in a chair. He looked bad, Don thought, as he glanced into the room at his father – completely drained. All of this was too hard on someone his father's age. If the stress didn't let up, his father would be in the ER next.

The hallway was near the admitting window, and a woman stepped forward up to the window and called to him. "Eppes? They just took him up to a room. You can go on up – Floor 5. Check at the nurses' station."

Don collected his father, who staggered to his feet, and they headed for the elevator. It was an eerie sense of déjà vu – they'd gone up in that same elevator a little over a month ago, after Charlie had been stabbed. Then however, they'd at least known what was wrong with him.

Charlie had come around relatively quickly on the tarmac. Two sets of chest compressions, two long breaths into Charlie's mouth, and he'd shifted, his lips moving, followed by a gasp and a weak cough. He didn't gain full consciousness, at least not right away, however. He was groggy and fading in and out, and when they got to the hospital after following the ambulance there, they had found that he was a bit more alert but silent, seemingly spent. He didn't look well when they wheeled him into an exam room, and that was the last Don had seen of him until now.

On the fifth floor, the nurse directed them to a room and when they got there, a physician was there with Charlie, making some notations on a chart. Charlie was propped up in bed. He looked tired and somber, but his eyes were fully open and he had a bit more color in his face. Alan went straight to his bedside as the doctor advised Charlie to immediately ring the nurses' station if he felt ill and headed toward the door. Don intercepted him in the hallway.

"I'm Don Eppes, Charlie's brother. My dad and I were with him when he collapsed. What's wrong with him?"

The physician gave him a sympathetic nod, and said, "I'm Doctor Guerstein. I'm a heart specialist, and I'll be monitoring him along with the floor physician. As to what's wrong, we aren't sure. He's been through all the testing we could throw at him in the ER, and we really aren't seeing anything too alarming from a cardiac standpoint, except for some slight abnormalities in rhythm. You're sure he didn't have a pulse?" The doctor's eyes were sympathetic, but Don could see skepticism in his face.

"Completely sure," Don replied, trying not let his irritation and impatience show. "He had no pulse, and was not breathing. It was only a matter a seconds before he came to, but I'm positive there was nothing."

Guerstein nodded. "Okay. For now, his heart rhythms are within the realm of normal. His weight is not, however, and I was looking through his charts – he had emergency surgery here a month ago, and the outcome was potential short gut syndrome, and he is quite underweight. I take it he hasn't been eating the prescribed number of calories that he was given when he was discharged."

"I'm not sure," said Don. "My dad's been with him – he could probably tell you, but I would guess not. He's been going through a rough patch, emotionally, these last few weeks."

"How so?"

Don hesitated for a moment, wondering about airing such personal information, but he decided that the doctors treating Charlie had better know the background if they were to treat him correctly. He gave Guerstein the high points – the stabbing and Amita's role in it, her diagnosis, and the heartbreaking events of the day. As he finished, Alan stepped up and joined them, and nodded in confirmation. "It was strange, that happening when it did," his father said to Guerstein. "It was almost as if his heart was broken – literally."

Don could see a flash of insight on the doctor's face as they spoke. "It's not so strange, actually," said Guerstein. "There is actually a condition called 'broken heart syndrome,' known in the medical field as takotsubo cardiomyopathy. It's caused by a sudden surge of stress hormones, and can have a profound effect on the heart's ability to pump. It typically occurs in people older than 50, but Charlie is in a weakened condition right now – still recovering from surgery, and he is dehydrated and malnourished. It is highly unusual in someone so young, but given his condition, it is quite possible that is what happened. When his blood work comes back, we'll know more. If that is what it was, if the person survives the episode, the condition usually resolves itself in about a week, with no permanent damage. We plan to keep him here for observation while he gets his strength back up, and when he is able, I'll do some more tests that require some physical effort on his part, such as a stress test. If we rule out everything else, I would hazard a guess that takotsubo cardiomyopathy is exactly what happened here."

He paused and glanced in at Charlie, and made a note on his clipboard. "I'll make a note to have a psych evaluation as well. He seems very depressed – understandably so, but that can also have an impact on his overall health. You're welcome to spend as much time with him as you wish – I'll let the nurses' station know they can ease up on visiting hour restrictions in this case. I'm sure he'll need your support."

He nodded at them and walked off, and they filed into the room. Charlie's eyes were closed, and Don's gaze flitted to the blip-blip of the heart monitor on the screen – regular and comforting after what they'd just been through. He suspected Charlie was still awake, but his brother didn't open his eyes or acknowledge them. He and his father exchanged glances, and then Alan lifted a shoulder in a sad sort of shrug and they sat, watching the regular scrolling of the line on the monitor.

Less than a week later, after tests had indeed indicated takotsubo cardiomyopathy by virtue of ruling out everything else, and after Charlie had regained some strength, he was released from the hospital and came home, and began life without Amita.

* * *

A little less than one month later, Charlie was back at school.

It felt odd walking onto campus again; it looked familiar but felt foreign because he knew Amita was no longer there. It was like one of Fleinhardt's physics theories concerning alternate universes, he thought, it was a Cal Sci seemingly identical to the original; yet not. Cooler weather was beginning to yield to warm, and he could feel the gentle heat of the sun on his head as he crossed campus to the building that housed his office. He kept his head down; he could sense a few of the students sending curious glances his way. Some of them, he was sure, were trying to make eye contact as a precursor to offering a greeting, but he didn't feel like talking. He felt too raw, too exposed. Greetings led to conversations, which led to questions…

Thinking of Larry Fleinhardt must have worked as a summons, because his friend appeared and fell in at his side, his wise eyes on him, evaluating. "Welcome back, Charles."

"Thanks," Charlie said simply. There was nothing more to say - the normal 'It's good to be back' didn't apply. It wasn't good, nothing was good, and probably wouldn't be again. He was grateful for Larry, however – he had been at Charlie's house nearly every evening after school for the better part of the last month, ready to act as sounding board, as comforter, offering cheering thoughts and tantalizing theorems, trying to coax Charlie into conversation. Sometimes he succeeded; sometimes he wisely refrained, sitting quietly in solid support. He had nearly single-handedly pulled Charlie out of the abyss – although Charlie's father had played a big role in that as well.

Not that Charlie was entirely out, by any means; he still struggled to keep his mind from wandering back into despair, but little by little, he was able to function again. School would help, both his father and Larry had told him. It would give him something more to occupy his mind – something to keep him from thinking about Amita… and from wondering what had happened to his brother. Don showed up rarely, and when he did, the visit was cursory, the atmosphere was awkward and strained, and his brother would beat a hasty retreat after a half hour. During one visit, he had tentatively offered Charlie some simple case analysis, a feeble attempt at connection on the working level – tax fraud investigation, mindless, easy stuff that he could work on at home. To Charlie, fraud investigations were somewhat tedious but relaxing work, like a decently hard crossword puzzle, and it normally was a mildly interesting time-filler, but he had no inclination to do anything at the time and he turned the offer down. To work on something more difficult was out of the question; the more serious cases were too intense, too emotionally draining, and Charlie had no emotion to spare, these days. And it wasn't as if Don had asked him for help with one of those cases, anyway. After Charlie turned down the tax fraud work, Don hadn't brought up the subject again, and his visits became further apart. Charlie was too dejected, too low to question the situation, too paralyzed by grief to try to understand why. Don's absence was just one more weight on a ship that was already sinking.

There was one thing that Charlie lived for, and those were the emails from Tapti Ramanujan, who wrote him weekly to tell him how her daughter was doing. Amita had entered into a regimen of drug and cognitive therapy with the doctors in India, and the results were mixed. They were seeing small signs that she was improving, but she had not come fully back to herself. The doctors surmised that seeing Charlie nearly be killed had almost unhinged her – that deep inside was the person who once had cared for him, and bringing her back to the surface also meant bringing to the forefront those painful memories.

It was somewhat disheartening – Tapti kept comparing Amita's progress to her cousin's. When her cousin was first diagnosed, compared to Amita he spent much more time as himself, and much less of it 'in that other world,' as Tapti called it. Still, in spite of Amita's condition, the doctors seemed confident that they could bring her back to herself, at least for a time. What they were less confident about was keeping her there, and halting the terrible decline into permanent madness. Charlie lived for the day that Tapti would write and tell him that Amita was back in their world; that she wanted to see him. He made sure his passport was up to date, applied for an Indian visa, and checked on airfare to India at least twice a week, just to be sure he could get a seat at a moment's notice.

"Mike Clarkson has been doing a great job filling in for you in your Applied Differential Equations course," Larry was saying, and Charlie forced his mind back to the present. "When he finishes his doctorate, Dean Willis is thinking of extending him an offer."

Charlie nodded. "He's very bright, and great with the students." He stopped speaking abruptly as the realization hit him – the open position that Clarkson would fill would be Amita's. He swallowed and tried to keep his mind on what Larry was saying as they entered the building.

"Mike said he would leave you some notes on where they were in the course, so you can prepare for tomorrow's lecture," said Larry.

He kept his gaze on Charlie as they passed Amita's old office, Charlie with his head down, and Larry laid a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder; a brief touch of support. Then they were past her door and at Charlie's office, and Charlie took a breath and pulled his keys from his jacket pocket. He looked at Larry, straight in the eyes, for the first time since Larry had fallen in next to him. "Thank you," he said quietly, with a meaningful look, and Larry smiled quietly and nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Call me if you need anything. I'll stop for lunch later, if that would be agreeable."

"That would be good," said Charlie, and he unlocked his office door with a nod at Larry as he hurried off. He took a deep breath and stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He eased his backpack from his shoulder and just stood for a moment, taking in the familiar sight; the shelves of books, the big desk, the comforting clutter. An alternate universe. Just like it had always been, yet not.

* * *

That same day, Don met his father for lunch. His father had come downtown so that Don didn't need to leave work for too long, and they met at a nearby deli and ordered pastrami sandwiches. "So how'd it go?" he asked, as the waitress brought their sandwiches, thin sliced pastrami piled high on rye, on thick white plates.

Alan shrugged. "He went, that's about all I can say." He bit into his sandwich and chewed reflectively. "He got up and showered and ate breakfast, like he always did, and took off for campus. He hadn't come back at lunchtime, so I guess he's doing okay. Hopefully he remembers to eat lunch – I packed one for him."

Don watched his father's face; he was hungry for information about Charlie, as always, and he never seemed to get enough – enough to know if his brother was really improving, enough to get a feel for what he was thinking – enough to think he might be welcome in his brother's life again. He felt strongly that his presence wasn't good for Charlie in his fragile emotional state – that he would remind Charlie too much of the traumatic events that began with the ill-fated kiss. "He's been eating enough?" he asked.

Alan nodded. "That's been getting better – and Charlie told me two days ago that he had gained back about five pounds since he left the hospital. Not nearly what he lost, but it's a start. His eating habits have improved - hopefully that won't go out the window as he gets more involved at school." He eyed Don. "How are you?"

Don chewed, swallowed, and shrugged, looking away through the deli window, pretending to watch the passersby on the sidewalk. "Okay. Busy."

"I take it you've been spending time with Robin."

"Yeah. We went out to dinner last night, in fact." The truth was, he had been spending most of his evenings with her – his apartment was too quiet, and quiet made him think, and thinking wasn't such a good thing these days.

Alan nodded. "She called me yesterday – said she thought we should all get together. Her sister is getting ready to leave town on an assignment, and she'll be gone for several months, and Robin was hoping we could all have dinner. She mentioned a restaurant, but I told her that maybe it would be better just to have a cookout at the house. It's going to be nice this weekend; it would be nice to be outside. And it would be a little easier for Charlie, I think, than going to a restaurant."

Don frowned. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with the idea. Why hadn't Robin asked him, first? "Do you think he's ready for that?"

Alan eyed him. "It would just be us, and Robin and Ree. He's back at school, lecturing to scores of students. I would think he could handle the four of us." He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Are _you_ ready for it?"

Don scowled at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been avoiding the house – avoiding Charlie – ever since all of this happened. If you're so worried about him, instead of quizzing me, why don't you stop over and see for yourself?" Alan's words were challenging, but his tone was mild, his expression sympathetic. "He's not going to bite, you know. He understands that what happened between you and Amita was initiated by her, and of course we all know why, now. You need to put that in the past, Don."

"I'm not sure _he_ has," mumbled Don.

Alan sighed. "Well, you'll never find out if you don't talk to him."

Don shook his head, took another bite of sandwich and looked away, out at the sidewalk again, as he chewed. "I don't think he's ready for that."

"You may be right," Alan conceded. "He probably hasn't been ready, up until now. But just because you're there doesn't mean you have to talk about it. Ease into it – just be there, become part of his life again. The conversation will surface when you both are ready for it." He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed briskly. "So it's settled. We'll have a cookout Friday evening."

End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting - I was traveling this past weekend and will be traveling the next, as well, starting Thursday but will try to get at least one more update out before I leave again._

Chapter 20

Robin got to Charlie's Craftsman home at five o'clock Friday evening with a potato side dish, courtesy of Ree, that smelled wonderful. Only Charlie and Alan were there; Alan let her in, and Charlie appeared from the kitchen and gave her a quiet hello as he passed her on his way upstairs, carrying his computer bag and his jacket. He must have just gotten home, Robin thought. He greeted her and tried to smile, but it was a wan attempt. In spite of Don's assurances that he had regained five pounds, to Robin he still looked very thin. She smiled at him and responded. "Hi, Charlie."

Her eyes followed him as he began to ascend the stairs, similar to the way one's eyes were drawn to a train wreck, and she pulled her gaze away and headed for the kitchen. She deposited the casserole on the stovetop, and arms free, gave Alan a warm hug. "Ree will be here soon," she said. "She was waiting for a pie to come out of the oven."

Alan raised his eyebrows with a smile. "Pie! Now that's ambitious – what kind?"

"Wild blueberry – her specialty," said Robin. "She's the cook in the family – she did the potatoes too." She unslung a bag from her shoulder and pulled out two bottles of wine with a flourish. "I, on the other hand, am the sommelier."

Alan smiled and took a bottle from her, examined it and pulled out a corkscrew. "Very nice," he said, observing the label. "Let's have a glass."

He poured the wine and they chatted for a few moments, comfortably. Alan was solid, wise, unpretentious, down to earth, and loved his sons, and she loved him for it. He was their rock; they leaned on him more than they knew. She understood his role completely; it was a role she had gravitated toward as well; at work, and at home with Don. The reliable one, the person who could be leaned on in a crisis, the giver of quiet, unwavering support. Thank God, Charlie had someone like that in his life right now, because she knew that Don hadn't been around much – he couldn't have been, because he was at her place nearly every night. She had gently chided him for that, had encouraged him to go spend time with Charlie, but he didn't – at least not often. There was a reluctance there that she couldn't quite understand, and Don refused to talk about it. She had wondered if Charlie had pushed him away, and was intensely curious to see how they would interact. She suspected that Alan had offered to coordinate the cookout at home to give them the opportunity to do just that – and she agreed wholeheartedly with his motive, if so.

She was chatting with Alan about the local political race for California congress, when the doorbell rang. She was closest to the kitchen door, and she said, "I'll get it. It's probably Ree."

She pushed the kitchen door open, but paused in the doorway as she saw Charlie crossing the room from the staircase, heading toward the front door. He had changed his buttoned shirt and blazer for a soft muted green sweater, which hung on his frame. He opened the door, and hesitated.

It was Don, not Ree, at the door, and Robin saw them both pause, uncomfortably. She wondered why Don would bother to ring the bell – it seemed odd, stiff; too formal. She glanced at Charlie. He didn't seem unwelcoming, it was clear; instead he looked as if he were waiting for Don to say something, or do something. Expectant – for what, Robin wasn't sure – but the vibe she got was hopefulness, mingled with a sad sort of resignation. Don looked uncertain, uncomfortable. The pause was very brief but awkward, and then Charlie held the door open wider. "Come on in," he said. "I think Robin's in the kitchen with Dad." It could have been a dismissal, but Robin didn't think so. It seemed rather like Charlie was politely offering his brother an out – an alternative to escape Charlie's presence. Don took it; he nodded and offered a quiet greeting as he stepped inside and Robin caught the dejected little slump in Charlie's shoulders as Don turned away from him, toward the kitchen. No, Charlie definitely wasn't pushing Don away, but he was being somewhat reserved, too polite. He was warily leaving the door open, just a tiny crack, waiting for Don set the tone, to make a move – and Don was being uncharacteristically tentative and reserved, himself. She let the door close before they could see her watching, and turned back to Alan. "Charlie got it – it's Don. Where were we?"

Don came into the kitchen and gave her a quick kiss in greeting and set another bottle of wine on the counter, and put a six-pack of beer in the refrigerator. He gave his father a hug and a slap on the back, and Alan eyed his offering, with raised eyebrows. "Decent," he teased, looking at the wine label. "But your fiancée has better taste."

Don's face relaxed into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "She certainly does – she picked me." He pulled one of the beers from its container and opened it, then put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze, smiling at her. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Robin rolled her eyes in mock sarcasm, smiling back at him. "Oh, absolutely."

The doorbell sounded; she was sure this time it was Ree, and they all stayed put, knowing Charlie would answer the door. There were voices, and moments later, Ree, holding a still-warm pie, buzzed through the swinging door as Charlie held it for her, and Charlie slunk in behind her and stood in the corner, the epitome of uncomfortable. Ree exchanged greetings with Don and Alan and took over the conversation, her usual bubbly self, a petite blond whirlwind, laughing and chatting, to Alan's apparent delight. Charlie stood in the corner as if surrounded by an invisible force field, trying to be anonymous. Well, Robin wasn't going to let him exclude himself. Alan had set wine glasses on the counter, and after he had poured Ree a glass, Robin took the bottle, poured a glass for Charlie and stepped over to his side, offering it to him.

He hesitated and then took it with a murmured thanks, and as her hand freed up, she leaned over and gave him a one-armed hug; her other hand still occupied with her own glass. Judging from Charlie's reserved response; two arms would have been too much anyway. "It's good to see you, Charlie," she said with a quiet smile.

He relaxed imperceptibly, and said, "It's good to see you, too." He asked her about work, an awkward attempt to steer the conversation from himself, and she took her cue and lifted the burden of making conversation from his shoulders. She chatted about a current case, as he sipped wine and listened politely. He glanced once or twice at the others in the room as they talked, his eyes landing on his brother, and every time they did she could see him retreat, just a little more.

* * *

Ree was talking too much; she knew it, but she was good at talking and telling stories; it came naturally. So it was natural that she was using it to cover up the uncharacteristic flutter in her chest when she looked at Charlie Eppes, although she was aware that she was perhaps just a bit in overdrive, a little too 'bubbly,' as her sister would put it.

Charlie had caught Ree unawares after she rang the bell at the front door. She was momentarily speechless – a strange and uncomfortable occurrence for her – as he was suddenly framed by the doorway. She stared; she was completely immersed in his eyes, and realized suddenly with a blush that he was inviting her in. "Oh – hi – thank you," she stammered. God, he was beautiful – those dark curls, those dark eyes – so soulful, so pensive, like a modern-day Lord Byron. She shook herself. _He's a mathematician, not a poet,_ she chided herself. _Quit imposing your romantic fantasies on him. Get a grip – you don't even know him._ But even as she thought that, she knew she was determined to do just that – get to know him, or at least talk to him.

Doing that turned out to be somewhat more difficult than thinking it. She had visited the hospital with Robin more than once when Charlie was there, and technically had been introduced to both him and Alan, but the visits were brief and she had hung back, letting Robin do the talking, well aware that she was not part of the family, at least not until Robin and Don were married, trying to be unobtrusive and polite at such a difficult time. And Charlie was ill, in pain and medicated – she wasn't sure if he even was aware of her presence then. Tonight was more of a proper introduction. She chatted easily with Alan, and with Don and Robin, Charlie a quiet presence hovering on the outskirts of the group, chiming in rarely and only when directly addressed, his silence the antithesis to her loquaciousness.

They had all migrated outside to enjoy the balmy spring air, and to keep Alan company as he manned the grill. Alan was charming and easily picked up his end of the conversation with her, with Don and Robin chiming in occasionally. Outside, there was more opportunity for movement and Ree noticed the arrangement of the group shift more than once; a shift that put Don and Charlie in close proximity was invariably quickly followed by one of them moving again, away from each other, which Ree found curious. Alan had set a picnic table outside, and as the steaks on the grill neared doneness, Robin and Ree headed into the kitchen to retrieve the side dishes. They could see the Eppes men outside, Don and Charlie on opposite sides, with Alan and the grill between them, neither of them talking, both of them seemingly very intent on the progress of the steaks.

Robin rolled her eyes. "He's driving me crazy."

Ree glanced sideways at her. "Who?" She grabbed oven mitts and opened the oven, where the potato casserole sat, warming.

Robin gestured toward the window. "Don. _And_ Charlie. I'm tired of watching them dancing around the yard, trying to avoid each other. They aren't talking – at all."

Ree grabbed the casserole and shut the oven door, and stood and contemplated them for a moment. "Maybe they're still trying to work out the Amita thing."

Robin sighed. "Oh, I'm sure that's it. I'm just not sure why it's taking so long. Everyone knows it was caused by her – condition – and that she precipitated that kiss. _I_ got over it – and I'm his fiancée." She paused. "I've never seen Don so backward, or so tentative. I don't know if he thinks Charlie isn't emotionally ready to be around him yet, or if it's a self-imposed guilt trip, or if he thinks Charlie is still upset with him, or what. And Charlie isn't acting like he's shutting him out – but he isn't making any moves to talk, either. He seems like he's in retreat mode. I'm having a talk with Don later. It's obvious that he needs to make the first move."

Ree contemplated that through the dinner. It was a shame, she thought wistfully, that she was leaving tomorrow. She had spent time with Don and Robin on several evenings, and tonight, since she and Alan were carrying the bulk of the conversation she felt she'd gotten a good start on getting to know him. But the person she'd hoped to talk to was Charlie, and he was refusing to participate in the conversation. She was a little frustrated, and the wine was making her just a bit tipsy. And so, after dinner, when Charlie wandered away over by the koi pond, she thought to herself, " _Okay, Mr. Charlie Eppes, like it or not, you're going to talk to me_." She took her wine glass and marched determinedly across the lawn. He hadn't smiled once all night – and she took that as her mission.

* * *

About a half hour later, Alan excused himself to bring some of the plates into the kitchen, and Robin sidled next to Don. "So," she said, "what's the deal?"

He eyed her, with a perplexed smile. "What's the deal about what?"

Robin cocked a head toward the koi pond. Ree had walked over there earlier to engage Charlie in conversation. At first Charlie had appeared awkward – maybe even a little trapped – but Ree was nothing if not likable and entertaining, and she had talked for ten minutes before he conceded and started to participate in the conversation. They had settled on the bench near the pond, and now Charlie was talking, using his hands to illustrate as if he was in lecture mode, and she guessed that he was explaining something mathematical to Ree, who was listening intently and smiling. The setting sun painted the two heads with gold, one dark; one blonde.

"Charlie," said Robin. "More specifically, you and Charlie. You both act like the other one isn't even present."

Pain flitted quickly across his face, and he looked away and took a swig of beer. "Yeah, well, it's pretty apparent he doesn't want to talk."

She looked at him incredulously, the wine making her a little more blunt than normal. "Don, what planet are you on? He keeps looking at you like he's waiting for you to make a move, or make conversation. You can't see that?"

He frowned at her. "I can see perfectly fine. I read people's faces for a living, remember. I'm pretty good at it."

"I read people's faces for a living, too, don't forget. And I'm good at it, as well – and let's face it, you can't exactly be objective, here. Yes, he's quiet, and he's too reserved, and he's not making any moves to start a conversation. But think of what he's been through – he's probably not himself right now, and you have been Mr. Unavailable lately. Maybe he thinks you're not interested. Either way, Don, you two are in a stalemate, and he's apparently too shell-shocked to take the initiative – so you need to do it."

He looked at her, and then at Charlie. "Maybe," he said heavily.

She cocked her head, and spoke more gently. "What is it? Are you afraid you'll upset him? Is it guilt? Are you afraid he'll reject you? He's got to understand that it wasn't your fault."

"I know. I think he does understand that, at least on the surface. Logically, he accepts the facts. I just don't know what he _feels_. Feelings aren't always logical." He broke off, his eyes on the horizon. "He said some things when I went to get him when he disappeared. Things that made me realize that he didn't quite trust me, that he felt used – and that those feelings went way back. If he felt like that to begin with, how could it possible for him to trust me now, after this?"

Robin shook her head, firmly. "Don, maybe this thing with Amita temporarily brought up some old feelings, but I guarantee, they are past. I've seen you two together these last few years. There is nothing but love and trust there on his part, or yours. You can't think otherwise."

He was silent for a moment, and she suspected that silence was disagreement. Her suspicion was confirmed when he shrugged, took a drink of beer, and sidestepped her assertion. He said, "Well, he just isn't ready for all of that yet. He's still recovering physically. He almost died – twice for God's sake – and he just got back to school. I know we need to talk – we need to hash out a lot of stuff – I'm just waiting until he's ready."

He clearly wanted the conversation to be over, and she dropped the subject. He was wrong, though, she thought. They needed to talk; and soon, whether Don thought Charlie was ready or not. And judging by the fact that he'd carried on a conversation with her sister, a relative stranger, for over a half hour, now, he had the stamina to do it.

And later that night, when she and Ree took their leave, she watched Charlie's face fall as Don used their exit as an excuse to make his own retreat. It was a brief flicker of disappointment that left as quickly as it came, but it was there. Charlie was ready to talk, she realized. It was Don who was not.

* * *

Amita called that same night.

Charlie was helping his father with the clean-up and they were nearly done when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He set down his dish towel and pulled it out, frowning at the number. It was from India – he recognized the country code, but it wasn't Tapti's number. "Hello?" he said, stepping away and pushing through the kitchen door.

" _Charlie_." It was Amita's voice, and he stopped dead on the other side, the kitchen door hitting his back with a thump as it swung back into place.

"Amita?!" Charlie's voice rose in excitement, and he fought to keep it level as he stepped away from the door. "How are you?"

" _Better_ ," she said. " _The doctors are telling me I am doing better. They said I could call you this morning._ "

' _That's right – it's Saturday morning, her time_ ," thought Charlie. It was unbelievable – he was actually talking with her. He felt a huge rush of emotion build in his chest and his voice shook as he answered. "I'm glad. I've wanted to talk to you. I miss you so much." He moved over to the dining room and sank into a chair, oblivious to the fact that his father had come to the kitchen door and stood staring at him.

" _I miss you, too. I have been having some lucid periods this last week, and I was able to talk with the doctors about what happened, rationally – in my right mind_." He could hear the emotion in her voice, as well. " _Charlie, I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you – that wasn't me. That was some other – person – thing – I don't know…_ "

Her voice trailed off in distress, and Charlie said quickly, "I know, Amita, I understand. I'm fine, really. Look, I have my passport and my visa updated. I can come to India to see if you if you want. Do you think that would be okay?"

She hesitated. " _Yes, of course I would like that – it's just – well the doctors cannot guarantee how long I will be – like this_."

Charlie frowned. "Like this?"

" _The lucid periods have become more frequent lately, but I go in and out. There is no guarantee I will be in good condition to see you by the time you get here_."

Charlie felt his heart dip, but he said firmly, "I'm willing to try, if you are."

" _Yes – I am willing – just a moment_." She broke off and he heard muffled voices on the other end. Then she spoke again. " _The doctors say the same thing. There is the risk that you may come all the way over here and not – find me_. _They said that maybe we should wait a couple of weeks to be sure my progress is not disrupted. In the meantime, though, we can talk by phone_."

"Okay," said Charlie, with a twinge of disappointment, but it was far outweighed by excitement. Amita was back – it was beyond his wildest dreams. "We can talk every day if you want, until they say I can come."

They talked a little more and she told him about the place where she had been staying – it sounded like a very high-end mental hospital, like an expensive hotel, only with security systems and doctors. The conversation was brief and they both hung up reluctantly when the doctors on the other side advised her that she should go.

Charlie took a deep breath and looked up at his father, his eyes shining, and rose from his chair. "That was Amita," he said, unnecessarily. "She remembers me – she apologized – we talked about me going for a visit as soon as the doctors say it is okay." He headed for the stairs, talking excitedly. "I'm going to go upstairs and look at flights. I'm not going to book anything yet – I just want to price them out, get a feel for the departure and arrival times…"

He started up the stairs, unaware of the look of concern on his father's face.

End, Chapter 20

 _A/N: She's back…_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Thanks for the comments, all. I do appreciate them - and as usual, I am using them to tweak future chapters. You are making this a better story..._

Chapter 21

Ree looked out of the window of the plane the next day, idly watching the crew on the tarmac at LAX. She would be gone from the States for at least two months while she covered the Paris and London fashion seasons, writing articles for Vogue, Elle, the New York Times and other magazines and newspapers. Then she would be back in the U.S., but with other contracted articles about various topics for multiple news agencies waiting in the wings. She wouldn't have time to make it back to L.A. until later that year.

She loved her life; she loved the glamour, the excitement, the travel – but for the first time she was questioning her career. She had enjoyed talking to Charlie the night before, loved listening to his voice, loved watching those dark expressive eyes as he talked about mathematics and how it related to Don's work at the FBI. To her surprise, she even understood some of what he was talking about; he had a knack for explaining things in ways a lay person could comprehend. Mostly though, she sat and listened just to watch him; to hear his voice.

She knew he was off limits, at least for now. The situation with Amita was unresolved, even though on paper they were no longer married. And even if his break with her were resolved and final in his mind, the pain was too fresh for him to consider getting involved with someone else this soon. It was true, Ree liked him – no, she admitted, it was a little more than that. The phrase 'love at first sight' was a cliché and she normally hated cliché's, but she had to admit, she was beginning to understand where the saying had come from. After only a few brief encounters, she had realized that she was fascinated by him; entranced by him; overtaken by an intense attraction she could not deny. If circumstances had been otherwise, she definitely would have pursued a relationship. Normally, dating was out of the question considering her career and the long absences, but for Charlie, she would have made an exception.

And that brought her to her latest concern, something she had never considered before. What if she did find someone? Not just a brief romance, but someone she loved enough to marry? She would need to reconsider her career; a long-distance relationship would work while one was dating, but after marriage? Some people managed it, she knew, but she wasn't sure she would want to. If she loved someone enough to marry him, she would want to be with him. Like she wanted to be with Charlie…

She yanked her thoughts back impatiently. She was getting way ahead of herself, she told herself firmly. She would be gone for months, and he was in no shape to take on a relationship, even if she weren't leaving. Even if he did decide to date again, months from now, she would likely not be there anyway. And there was always the chance that Amita would start to improve, and they would rekindle their relationship. There were way too many 'ifs', and the resolution of them lay way too far in the future.

That didn't stop her from dreaming about him, all the way to Paris.

* * *

It was another five weeks before Don made it back to the Craftsman.

His father had invited him over to watch a ballgame; the Dodgers were playing the Brewers. He really didn't want to go, but he'd been making excuses for the past three weeks – refusing two dinner invitations at home and one for a dinner at a restaurant. He wasn't entirely sure he knew why, although Robin had her opinions. "You're afraid of him," she had said a few days ago, impatiently, when she'd found out that he'd declined yet another invitation.

He had scowled at her, knowing she was talking about Charlie. "I am not. I'm giving him space." His voice sounded just a little defensive – even a little whiny – in his own ears, and his scowl deepened. "Besides, he's been talking with Amita again and he just finished finals. He's been busy."

"Finals were two weeks ago," Robin retorted. "I think you're afraid to face him." She eyed him. "I'm beginning to think that maybe you feel guilty about what happened – that maybe there _was_ something more to that kiss."

He gaped at her. "What?" Then her mouth twisted a little, just the hint of a smile creeping through, and he realized she was baiting him.

Her voice softened. "I'm kidding," she said. "You _are_ avoiding him, though – and I think guilt is part of it. Maybe not necessarily guilt over what happened with Amita, but…" Her voice trailed off as she studied him. "You're afraid of how he'll act toward you, what he might say if you get a chance to talk."

He shrugged, and set his face in stone so she couldn't see she'd hit close to the mark. "I'm not afraid. It's really not a big deal."

"Good," she said with satisfaction. "Then the next time you're invited, you'll go."

He shrugged, as if the thought didn't concern him. "Yeah, I'll go. Like I said, no big deal."

* * *

It was now the next time, and he knew he was stuck. If he turned his father down again, he'd have to admit to Robin that she was right, that he had issues that needed to be resolved. And anyway, a ballgame on television was really not conducive to conversation, he thought. He and Charlie really didn't need to talk too much with the game on, and their father would be there to buffer what little conversation there was. So he agreed to go, and casually let Robin know he had plans. No big deal.

He stopped and picked up beer on the way. At the front door, he hesitated. Before all of this happened he never used to knock, but he hadn't felt comfortable _not_ knocking since he'd gone to bring Charlie back from Watsonville. He pondered just opening the door, then finally sighed and knocked. He felt he should give Charlie the choice, the option to let him in or not, even though he knew he was invited and Charlie wouldn't decline. He was wondering why he felt the need to do that, when Charlie opened the door.

He was dressed in what Don thought of as his school attire – a blazer over a button shirt, tail out, and jeans. He still looked very thin, thought Don, and… He searched for the right word. Wary. Watchful. However, Charlie opened the door wider – a bit too politely – and said, "Hi – come on in."

"Hey, Chuck," said Don, with an attempt at a smile, as he stepped over the doorstep and shut the door behind him.

Charlie had started to head toward the dining room, and he tossed back over his shoulder, "You don't have to knock, you know."

The statement lessened the knot in Don's gut just a bit, as he followed Charlie. He lifted the two six-packs he had brought – both of them from craft breweries. "I brought us some beer. I'll just throw it in the fridge."

"Okay," said Charlie. "I'm going to finish something up for school, and get changed." He sat down at the dining room table and started tapping at his computer, and the sight looked so normal, it sent a pang through Don's heart. It reminded him of past evenings, so relaxing, so comfortable – and of the cloud that was hanging over this one. He wasn't comfortable at all, and neither was Charlie, and he couldn't figure out why. Sure, Charlie was still feeling the loss of Amita, but there was more to it than that – something more personally directed toward him. Thank God for the game, and limited conversation.

He put the beer in the fridge and was pushing through the kitchen door when his father came hurrying down the stairs. He smiled and gave Don a hug, and said, "Boys, I am so sorry – I completely forgot that this is my poker night." Charlie stopped typing and his head came up, and he and Don both stared for a moment, their mouths open.

Alan was smiling broadly, apparently oblivious to their consternation. ' _He did this on purpose, the conniver_!' thought Don, as Charlie stood and closed his laptop and headed for the stairs, his head down, mumbling something about getting changed. He looked as uncomfortable as Don felt.

Alan had pushed through into the kitchen, and Don followed him, scowling. "You set us up."

"Moi?" asked Alan innocently, his eyes twinkling. He sobered a little as he caught the look on Don's face. "Look, Don, you don't have to discuss anything heavy. Just enjoy a night together. I ordered pizza for you – enjoy the game, try to bond a little. No one's asking for anything more. What are you afraid of, anyway?"

"Nothing," mumbled Don, sullenly, as he opened the door and grabbed a beer. He just knew this would be painful – he would need to initiate the conversation, because Charlie wasn't going to. He got the feeling that Charlie was waiting for him to talk, if they did get into any kind of meaningful conversation. He wasn't afraid, he was just…

And suddenly, clarity hit; Don had the reason for his own reluctance to connect. Robin was right. He _was_ afraid. There was no doubt, they needed to talk – but when he did, what if he said the wrong thing? He had the feeling that Charlie's opinion of him was hanging on an edge right now – and what Don said could vindicate old hurts and suspicions if he didn't come across as credible – as meaning what he said. There was good reason to be afraid of this meeting. And he realized, too, that he'd already dug himself a hole by not showing up more often, recently. There was only one way to fix that, and ready or not, he was going to interact with his brother tonight. Whether Charlie would accept or reject him – well, afraid or not, he was probably going to find out.

"Penny for your thoughts," said his father, and Don realized he was just standing there, facing the open fridge with a beer in his hand.

He tried to cover. "I guess I should get one of these out for Charlie," and snagged another beer. He set them both on the counter and closed the refrigerator door, and Alan handed him an opener. Don opened one of them and took a swig, then regarded his father. If he was going to spend time with his brother, he'd better understand his current state of mind. "How's he been doing lately?"

Alan sighed. "Still fixated on Amita – and that hasn't been going too well lately. After the cookout, he was talking to her off and on for a week or two, and was hoping he'd get the green light to go out and see her. Then the calls stopped, and Tapti called instead and told him that Amita had experienced another – I don't know what you'd call it – a spell or a relapse. Amita called once more two weeks later, and then nothing again. He hasn't heard from Tapti, either." He shook his head. "When Charlie first talked to her, he really got his hopes up, I'm afraid. She's still very far from being able to function or even consider having him visit, however, and I think Charlie is a little disappointed. I'm worried about this – it didn't sound as if there was much hope for recovery in the long term, and I think Charlie has his heart set on a miracle. After that phone call, if he doesn't at least get to see her, he'll be crushed. And if he does get to see her, I'm worried he'll get his hopes up even more."

Don frowned. "Well, maybe a little hope is a good thing. It might be helping him get through life right now."

Alan shook his head and looked at Don, sadly. "Short term, you're probably right. But the progression of the disease could take years, decades from the sound of it. If he decides to pin his hopes on a miracle and wait for her to recover, his whole life could pass him by."

* * *

Upstairs, Charlie pulled off his blazer and took off his button-down shirt, and shrugged into a T-shirt. Truthfully, he was desperate to reconnect with Don, but the fact that it took their father to set up a reason for them to be alone together, and that Don obviously did not want to be there, made the situation undeniably uncomfortable - and well, heartbreaking, as far as Charlie was concerned. After Don's explanation of what had happened with Amita, Charlie had thought he had his brother back, but somehow, during the ensuing weeks, he had the sense that he had lost his brother after all, and he couldn't understand why. Moreover, he didn't want to understand why - denial was less painful. Unfortunately, faced with his brother one-on-one, denial was supremely difficult. It was so hard to see him, obviously in retreat mode, his patented stoic tough-guy persona on full display, as if Charlie was just another criminal in the interrogation room. He sighed, and headed for the door.

* * *

Don and Alan heard Charlie's footsteps on the stairs, and their conversation ended. Alan pasted a smile on his face and pushed out through the door first, and as Don heard him give Charlie a breezy good-bye he wondered when his father had become such an actor. Clearly, all of what had happened was weighing heavily on their father, but he was hiding it well, apparently for Charlie's sake. Maybe Don wasn't the only one trying to avoid unpleasant conversations. Don turned toward the counter, and tried to quell the little twinge of apprehension in his gut by opening Charlie's beer. Then he took both beers by the neck, slung casually from one hand, took a deep breath, and pushed through the kitchen door.

Charlie had changed into a T-shirt and was just standing there, his head down, rubbing his forehead, and his hand dropped and his head came up as Don emerged from the kitchen. His features were nearly expressionless, and made Don realize that his brother had become a better actor, as well. His face used to be an open book, and at least at this moment, it was unreadable. Just a hint of ruefulness crossed Charlie's features as he said, "Well, I think Dad pulled a fast one on us." He paused a beat, then said, "You don't have to stay."

Don felt his heart dip at the statement. Charlie apparently wanted him here as little as Don wanted to be here – that didn't bode well. Even if they did talk, it might be a moot point – Charlie may very well have already decided how he felt. For a moment Don wavered – but then he forged ahead with an acting job of his own, and said heartily, "Of course, I'll stay – if it's okay with you."

Charlie's eyes searched his face for a moment, then he said, "Sure."

Don lifted his hand holding the two beers by the neck and grabbed the full one with his other hand and held it out to Charlie. "Beer?"

"Sure," said Charlie again, and they each advanced a step and he reached for it – not getting any closer than arm's length. Charlie made a show of studying the label as he moved for the sofa and picked up the TV remote and flicked on the TV. "This is a new one." He tossed the remote in the center of the sofa.

"Yeah, it's some fancy craft brewery from Colorado," said Don. He moved around the end of the sofa as Charlie settled himself on the other end. "Hope you like IPAs – there's another six pack from another craft brewery in Seattle, but they're both IPA's." Don hesitated a moment, considering the seating options – his father's easy chair was further away from Charlie – but then he firmly put that notion aside. He took Charlie's placement of the remote in the center of the sofa as an olive branch. He was sitting on the sofa, where he usually sat when he came over. He plunked down on the other end, and Charlie shot him a glance, cautiously, as he surfed through the channels and found the game. The first inning had started, and the Dodgers were just taking the field.

The first hour was painful. The pizza came, and they ate. They made small talk about the game, and they each drank two beers. The beers were strong, with more alcohol content than the average beer, and Don could feel the tension start to dissipate, just a little. He was feeling a bit of a buzz, and judging by the fact that his brother staggered a little when he stood up to use the bathroom, Charlie was feeling it a little more than him. Of course, Don probably had a good forty pounds on him – maybe more, based on how thin Charlie was now. It hadn't been enough alcohol for Charlie to let his guard down, though. He did seem a little more relaxed, but still quiet and reserved, and Don was beginning to worry. While Charlie was in the bathroom, Don went out to the kitchen and got them each another beer, and discarded the carton from the first six-pack. One six-pack down, one to go – time to start talking. If it didn't go well and he needed to leave, he wanted to be sure he could still drive. He took a deep breath, and pushed through the kitchen door.

He reached the sofa just as Charlie was about to sit, and handed him the beer. Charlie took it and looked at it and then flushed a little. "I'm a little out of practice. I haven't drank very much since…," his flush deepened and he looked away, toward the TV screen. "Well, you know." He ducked his head and sat.

There was a silence, broken only by the sound of the sports commentators' voice. Don sat down on the sofa – this time more toward the middle, closer to Charlie, and reached over for the remote and hit mute. "Charlie, we need to talk."

Charlie shot him a sideways look, nervously, and then fixed his eyes back on the television screen, seeming fascinated by the Dodgers' pitching. "About what?" He took a quick, bolstering swallow of his beer. He was sitting forward on his seat, elbows on his knees, as if he was about to spring from the sofa.

Don sighed, wondering where to begin. "I don't know Chuck – about us, I guess. I know I haven't been around much lately – I was trying to give you some space, to heal up physically, and well, to try to get back to normal as much as possible." ' _That was a flat-out lie_ ,' he told himself with disgust. ' _Great way to start. You were just chicken_.'

Charlie was looking at him now, at least. "Okay," he said, tentatively.

Don looked at him directly, steadily. "So how are you doing? What's going on? Dad told me about Amita." ' _You're hedging_ ,' Don told himself. ' _You're lobbing the ball into his court, so you don't have to bring up the stuff that's really bothering you._ '

Charlie's face brightened a little at the mention of Amita. "I think Amita's improving," he said. His voice became more animated, and he took another swig of his beer. "She's called me three times – the first time was right after the cookout." His face clouded a little, and he shrugged, almost apologetically. "Lately, well, she's kind of in-and-out. I haven't heard from her in a couple of weeks. I'm going over to see her as soon as the doctors say it's okay."

Don kept his face carefully neutral. He could see what his father was worried about – Charlie seemed to be completely ignoring Amita's probable eventual prognosis. Even if she improved in the short term, it didn't mean the long term outlook would be good. Don wasn't going there, however – he couldn't. He was in no position to lecture – he wasn't sure what position he still had, himself, with Charlie, but he was sure he had lost his rights to lecture him on anything. He changed the subject. "School going okay?" He took a big swallow of his beer. Damn, this was hard. It was like wading through mud.

Charlie shrugged and looked back at the television screen. He was still leaning forward, still a little tense, but no longer looked as though he was going to bolt. "Yeah, it's okay. Luckily I didn't have a lot of classes to teach this term, and they had one of our doctoral candidates pick up what I had – he did a pretty good job of it. And we just got through finals, so…" He shrugged again, and shot a glance back at Don, his expression somber again. He was slurring his words, just slightly. "So it wasn't too hard to transition back in. And it's not like I was doing anything extra – any case work for you." He kept his eyes on Don as he said that, but then turned back to the television and took another drink of his beer. It looked like that swallow was forced down – maybe past a lump in his throat – he grimaced a little.

"It's not that I don't want you back, Charlie," Don said quietly. "You've been through a lot – you needed time to heal up and get back on track."

Charlie was silent, he just dropped his head.

"Charlie?" said Don, frowning. "You get what I'm saying, right?"

Charlie raised his head again, and for the first time that night, Don could see real emotion, see the pain in his face. "Sure," he said, with shrug. He looked away. "I get it."

Don stared at him. "I don't think you do."

Charlie swung around to face him, his face flushed. "What do you want me to say, Don? Apart from the one consulting offer, you haven't been here, to speak of, apart from the cookout – you haven't called. What am I supposed to think?"

Don took a breath, startled at the sudden display of emotion. He'd had no idea his absence had bothered Charlie so much. They stared at each other for a moment – the silence was palpable.

"Okay," said Don quietly. "I guess I've got a confession to make. It's true, I was trying to give you some time to heal – but the bigger part of why I stayed away is because I suspected you didn't want me here, and well, honestly, I was afraid to find out the truth."

Charlie gaped at him, his brow furrowed in a frown. "Why wouldn't I want you here?"

Don stared at him. "Charlie, you're kidding me, right? The whole Amita thing - the kiss -," he broke off and shook his head.

Charlie's eyes were searching his face. "She kissed _you_ – you didn't kiss her back. I told you I believed you."

"Believe and forgive are two different things," said Don softly. "And what you said when – after you ran off and I found you – well, I just wasn't sure where I stood with you." He swallowed, looked away and took a big swig of beer, swallowed again.

Charlie was staring at him. "What I said?"

Don shrugged impatiently. This was hard enough without reliving that painful memory – Charlie was choosing a bad moment to be dense. "At the inn, when I came to pick you up."

Charlie was still staring at him, lips parted slightly as if thinking. Then he flushed, and said, "I'm sorry. I was pretty out of it – I guess I don't remember. I very vaguely remember you being there, and you helping me back up from the beach and taking me home, but I guess I don't remember anything that either you or I said. I'm sure I didn't mean whatever it was – I was pretty drunk."

Don shook his head. "I don't know, Charlie. It sounded like something that had been brewing – for a while."

Charlie looked worried. "Why? What did I say?"

Don closed his eyes. He wasn't sure what good would come of revisiting this. He opened them, and looked at Charlie cautiously. "You told me that I lie – that I acted like I cared about you all these years, and that you realized it was just an act - that I just say what people want to hear to get what I want. You said that I had been lying to you the whole time. You told me that I've never been about anything but myself." He held his breath. This was it – granted, Charlie was drinking again tonight but he was in full control of his faculties, still. Now that he was thinking straight, would he confirm what he said, or deny it?

Charlie turned pale, and for a few shocked seconds, he said nothing. Then he blurted, "That's not true!"

Don smiled, bitterly. "Oh trust me, Charlie – that's what you said. I had the whole night afterward, - ' _and every night after that,_ ' he added mentally, "to turn it over in my head."

"No – I mean, even if I said that, I really don't believe it. Especially after I found out what really happened. I'm sorry." There was a note of panic in his voice.

Don sighed. "The disturbing thing was, you found it pretty easy to go there – shocked or not, drunk or not. And you may be right, a little." He looked at Charlie, and held his eyes. "You're right in that I don't give a lot – I don't show appreciation much, or how much I care about people, and when I sat and thought about it, I realized that I probably give you the least acknowledgment of all." As he spoke, he was mortified to feel tears start to sting his eyes, and he tried to blink them down. "Some of what you said was justified, and I think maybe that's why you found it so easy to think I could do something that horrible. Maybe if I'd been a better brother, you wouldn't have jumped to that conclusion so easily."

Charlie looked distressed, and tears were starting to form in his eyes also. "No," he said, shaking his head.

"It's true, Charlie, and you know it."

"No," said Charlie, shaking his head more vehemently. Don could see something in his face, something that looked almost like desperation. "You've always been a great brother. Sometimes I don't always know where you stand or how you feel about me, but from what you're saying, it sounds like that goes both ways." He held Don's eyes, earnestly. "I don't think you need to apologize, but if you feel you do, I do forgive you. I did from day one – in fact it was a foregone conclusion for me, so I never thought to say it. And I apologize, too, for what I said. I love you, and I always have. And right now, I need you more than I ever have."

And there, it was out. Don had his answer, and he felt a huge rush of something inside – of relief, of release, and to his horror, the tears that were threatening welled up. He swiped at his eyes and bowed his head, with his hand over his face and muttered, "Damned beer."

He heard a choked little laugh from Charlie, and then heard him move, felt him slide across the sofa cushion right next to him, and throw an arm around his shoulders. "I don't know," said Charlie softly. "I kind of like this beer." He gave Don's back a soft slap, and Don rubbed his eyes and looked up, with a rueful expression. Charlie's eyes were damp, too, but he was smiling, and he clinked his bottle against Don's. "Here's to communication," he said. "And more of it."

Don smiled and reached over with one arm, and gave his brother a quick hug. "I'll drink to that."

* * *

Later that night, Alan entered the house, shutting the door quietly behind him, with a smile coming to his lips as he caught a glimpse of the scene on the sofa. Don was sitting, but sprawled, legs out, his head resting on the back of the sofa, with his mouth open. He had one arm flung across the back of the sofa and over Charlie's shoulders, and Charlie had slumped over, with his head down and partially resting against his brother's chest, a half-full beer wedged precariously between his knees. Alan stepped forward quietly and removed the bottle, and set it with its empty cousins on the coffee table.

As he did so, Don's head came up and his eyes opened, and he blinked at his father, blearily. "I take it you're staying here tonight," said Alan, softly, with a wry smile.

Don blinked again and grinned, a little loopy. "I guess I am."

Alan surveyed them. They looked comfortable, but both of them would end up stiff in the morning if they stayed there the entire night. "Maybe you two should head upstairs."

Don looked down fondly at the mop of curly hair resting against his chest, and said softly, "Yeah, maybe later. I don't want to wake him."

Then his head went back again and his eyes closed, and Alan just shook his head. He'd been staying in his old room upstairs since Charlie had come home from the hospital, and he headed for it again tonight, quietly, still smiling. Someone would need to cook those boys breakfast in the morning.

End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. Sorry for the delay. There is another 'brother' moment - and talk - toward the end... but not without some angst and action, first. After this chapter, 5 chapters and an epilogue remain._

Chapter 22

"You gonna eat that?"

It was two weeks later in the office conference room, and Charlie was pointing to an uneaten chunk of Don's sub. The sandwiches were huge, and Charlie had dispatched his with no problem. He went on to finish Don's, much to Colby's admiration. The agent caught up to Don at the coffee pot as they took a quick break, and said, "Boy, the Whiz Kid is still skinny, but he's sure eating well – that's a good sign, huh?"

Don's smile was tentative. "I guess so. The bad part is, he seems to have to eat like that just to hold the status quo. He's only gained back about five pounds from his lowest point, and he can't seem to put any more on, no matter how much he eats."

Nikki strolled into the coffee area as Don made his last remark, and rolled her eyes. "Damn. I wish I had that problem."

"Me too," sighed Colby. "Anyway, it's good to see him again. All in all, he doesn't seem too bad, considering what he went through."

Don nodded, with a glance out through the door at his brother. It was true – Charlie did seem to be back in the swing of things, and more like his old self. He was in the office today to get up to speed on his first real consulting job in weeks. Don wondered though, how much of his brother's improvement was buoyed by the hope he was placing on Amita's recovery. Don had seen him three times since their talk at the Craftsman a couple of weeks ago, and Amita – and possibly going to see Amita – was all that Charlie talked about. He had bounced back almost too quickly, and Don speculated that his recovery was fragile. Considering the emotional and physical trauma he'd been through, his energy and optimism seemed abnormal, unsupported by reality. Their father was worried, and Don was, too.

Colby and Nikki seemed to be waiting for an answer, and Don, whose gaze had settled on his brother, glanced at them. "Yeah," he said softly. "He's doing okay."

* * *

Ten hours later, Amita Ramanujan hung up the phone and stretched in her hospital bed with a big sigh and a smile. Charlie had called her unexpectedly. Unexpectedly, because she always called him, and she always called him because – well, he never knew when it would be a good time to call her. Granted, he'd had to go through the hospital operator, who had to check with her doctor before she put him through, but he'd actually called her. His call to her was a first since she'd moved to the facility in India, and she was so thankful she had been able to answer. She wasn't sure, but it seemed that she had been out again recently – in her other world. Probably just for a few hours, she reflected. She was sure she hadn't been spending much time there lately. It was her morning and his evening, and he had called just briefly on a whim, to wish her good morning, and to tell he loved her.

He loved her – against impossible odds, he still loved her. Tears stung her eyes when she thought of it, tears of joy, and tears of guilt. She had no right to expect it after what she'd done, but somehow, he had pushed all of that aside. He had been constant, a rock, and she so desperately needed something to cling to. She loved him too, at least she did when she was in a lucid period – she remembered how very much she had loved him, and she felt all of that again, now. She was hoping that some of that love carried over into the not-so-lucid periods – she had a hard time calling herself 'insane,' although she knew that is what she really was, when she wasn't lucid. She had no idea what she said or did during those episodes – but hopefully her love for Charlie seeped over into them. She had the feeling that if it did, she could somehow connect the two worlds and unite them again, and with the help of the medications become sane again full time.

She sat there and thought about that for a moment. She knew the doctors recorded her behavior constantly, sometimes multiple times per day, and especially when she lapsed into what she called 'that other world.' She had never seen those recordings – but what if she viewed them while she was sane? Maybe she could gain some clues as to what might help her out of that state if she knew how she behaved. She pondered that idea, with growing conviction. It suddenly seemed critical – she _had_ to see them.

She couldn't possibly be as bad as her cousin, she was sure. He was in the same hospital, and spent much of his time in his 'other world.' She had gone to see him, but after a time or two she refused to visit him when he was like that; his ranting, crude behavior and language and the obvious rift with reality frightened and repulsed her. But she knew she wasn't like that – even at her worst, back in L.A., they told her that she had acted somewhat sane until the night Charlie was hurt – she had been relatively normal, just very out-of-character. She wasn't as bad as her cousin, and unlike him, she was going to get better. Her love for Charlie would save her. He would be her bridge back to reality, if she could channel him when she was in the other world.

She glanced at the clock, a little after ten. When she was lucid she had sessions with one or more of the doctors in the afternoon, but the mornings were free. She felt somehow that she had been 'away,' before she went to sleep last night – she couldn't remember yesterday very well. And if she had been away in that other world for a while, the doctors wouldn't even be looking for her today. She had some free time.

She got up, showered and washed her hair, got dried and dressed in the bathroom for privacy – her bedroom had a camera in it for security and her own protection. She stared in the mirror at herself for a moment – she looked the same as she remembered, maybe a little thinner, which wasn't a terrible thing. She gave her hair a last pat and put on some pink lip gloss, and went to the doorway of her room and punched in the code. The attendant showed up in only a few minutes, knocked, and she pressed the green button to let him know that he was allowed to enter. The door slid open and the attendant smiled, sharp eyes assessing her. "Hello, Amita, how are we doing today?"

"Fine." She smiled. "I wanted to go out for a walk." That generated a series of questions designed to test her lucidity level, and eventually the attendant was satisfied, and gave her the approval to leave. She was given a wristband with a chip in it that tracked her whereabouts, and she stepped out of her room.

She was allowed to roam the hospital and its floors and grounds when she was lucid. She could only remember the code to page the attendant when she was sane, and then had to pass the evaluation to get out, so she couldn't leave the room if she was not in her right mind. And if she began to have an episode when she was out of her room, the attendants would quietly escort her back. All residents were on constant surveillance by the scores of attendants, plus there were video cameras with constant monitoring by security. Not all of the residents were allowed to roam on their own – some were allowed out only for escorted walks on the grounds to get some air and exercise, and others were too insane and too dangerous to themselves and others to be let out at all. There were only a few places in the hospital where the cameras were not always on, but most of the residents didn't know where those places were. Amita did, though. She was one of the lucky ones allowed out on her own, at least during her lucid days, and out of boredom, she had explored the entire place. Which areas had cameras and which did not had rather intrigued her. It reminded her of a project Charlie had been working on for Don, to capture gang behavior via cameras stationed throughout L.A. Or was that _her_ project? She couldn't remember. The nurses' lounge, the emergency room (if anyone was injured), the staff locker rooms, and the conference room – none of them were regularly monitored by cameras. And the conference room was where Amita was headed now.

It was a large, well-appointed room that the doctors used; she had met with them there several times for sessions. It also had cameras but the doctors only turned them on during sessions, and then only some of the time. Plus, she knew how to turn them off and on; she had watched them. At the back of the room there was another door which led to a storage area, and she was fairly certain that was where they kept the surveillance tapes that they used for examining behavior of the patients. It was a good bet that hers were in there.

She walked up to the room as if she had an appointment, and stepped inside. None of the staff in the hallways paid any attention; they were accustomed to the more sane patients reporting there for sessions with the doctors. Luckily, the room was empty, and she shut the door with a quick glance at the cameras. They were off. Her heart beating quickly, she hurried to the back closet. It was locked – but she had noticed one of the doctors use a spare key once, and she knew where they kept it – under a set of books on the bookshelf…there. She retrieved the key and opened the door.

For a moment, she hesitated. She should probably just ask her doctors to see her tapes, she thought, instead of sneaking in here. But if they said 'no' and restricted her access to them, what then? Better to take a chance and look at them now, and plead ignorance if they walked in on her. Feign surprise that she was not allowed to view herself on the videos they had taken…

As she was thinking that, she wandered inside. It was more than a closet, it was a small storage room, with rows upon rows of DVDs and books. The DVDs were clearly dated and labeled with patient last names and she had no problem finding hers. There were at least a dozen DVDs, and her fingers trailed over them, trembling a little in apprehension. She shook it off with an impatient toss of her head. She wasn't like her cousin. When she was out of it, she still acted sane – there was nothing to fear, here. She just needed to know what she said and did when she was on that other side – she was suddenly convinced that that was the key to fighting her affliction.

She found her files along with two volumes of the doctors' written notes, brought them to the table, pulled out the first DVD and slid it into the computer, turning on the monitor. Immediately an image flickered on the screen, and she stiffened. She recognized herself in the footage; it must have been the day she arrived. Her parents and Dr. Aggrawal from the hospital in L.A. were with her. She looked exhausted and out of it, almost in a dreamlike state. She knew they had given her drugs to calm her during the flight – she had taken them since she had arrived at the hospital, as well. Some kind of sedative… they spaced her out. She actually had quite a few of them hidden in a small slit she had found in her mattress – ones she hadn't taken because she didn't like feeling so out of it, so stupid and groggy, especially when she was in the real world. She had to be careful when hiding them, sliding them into the slit in the mattress under the blanket, because of the camera in her bedroom. She was going to have to remember to somehow fish them out and flush them down the toilet before someone found them. She turned her attention back to the screen. Okay. She didn't look too bad, just a little loopy from the drugs, she decided. She could handle this.

She went on, fast-forwarding through sections that didn't interest her, through some of the doctors' comments. She was actually getting bored until she came to her first break with reality. The doctor prefaced that section with some recorded notes, and mentioned that they were taking her off the sedatives and her other medication to see what she would do, un-medicated. The psychotic break came quickly, just a day later.

She gasped and a hand went to her mouth at the footage. She was ranting, howling – sometimes screaming, sometimes laughing, her hair wild, features twisted beyond recognition. Demonic, frightening. With a small cry, she shut off the video, and sat there, trembling. She _was_ just as bad as her cousin – if not worse. Her mind fought against the fact – she _had_ been improving, after all, she told herself desperately. That recording had been made right after she'd come in – she'd advanced so far since then. She remembered Charlie now and she didn't then; she now remembered how to love him again. Surely if she looked at some later videos, she would see the improvement.

She fished feverishly through them, starting in the middle of the pack, putting them in, flipping them out, one after another, growing more distressed with each one. They all seemed the same –when she wasn't lucid, she was raving – horribly, and not only did she not profess love for Charlie, in one of the later versions, she found a recording of herself talking about him – screaming was more like it, howling and rasping her hatred. She ejected the last video, and put her head in her hands, sobbing, shaking.

"I love you, Charlie," she whispered, as if trying to contradict her other self. She raised her head and spoke loudly, angrily to the ceiling. "I love him!"

She uttered a deep, agonized sob and ran a hand over her face and drew a long, shaky breath. She'd been hopping and skipping through those videos, she realized. She may have missed other sessions where she wasn't as bad, where her real-world thoughts and her love for Charlie crept through. If she read the doctor's notes first, maybe she could find those sessions without torturing herself. She glanced at the dates on the DVDs. The doctors listed the dates and the number of dissociative episodes on each one. Most of the episodes must be on the earlier discs…

She flipped through the discs, her attention suddenly riveted, frantic. This couldn't be right. More of the discs were recent dates, and the most recent ones had more dissociative episodes listed, not less. Her heartbeat ratcheted up. That could only mean she was getting worse, not better. It didn't make sense.

"Calm," she told herself, as she took a deep exaggerated breath. Breathe. There could be any number of reasons for that. Maybe she was having so many episodes at first they didn't record them all. Maybe her breaks were all the same at the beginning, and they were starting to see some improvement, so they did a more thorough job of recording the episodes lately. She _was_ getting better. They had let her talk to Charlie on the phone, after all. They wouldn't let her do that if she wasn't getting better.

She flipped through the doctors' notes, impatiently noting medication names and what they were for; whether the doctors thought that they worked. There were masses of notes, and most of them were dry observation – too much to go through, she would need hours. ' _Go further back, to the more recent stuff_ ,' she told herself, and she went three quarters of the way through the notes, and began to read.

They found her there, an hour later, her head still in the book, as her tears stained the pages.

End Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Thank you all, for your continuing support._

Chapter 23

Four days after Charlie had stopped in the office to discuss his latest consulting project, Don stopped at the Craftsman. It was a Friday evening, and Charlie had invited him over. Their father was going out, but Charlie had asked if Don wanted to come over and he had accepted, with a warm feeling inside. He and Charlie had gotten together a few times since their talk, two weeks prior – once with Dad for dinner, twice just them – one of those nights just hanging out together at Don's apartment, and one night out for a couple of beers, and dinner. It was great, it felt good, and Don had slowly felt some of the guilt and fear slip away. Charlie was back; he was his brother, and he _wanted_ to be. Still, in spite of all of it. Don felt himself a lucky man.

He let himself inside the Craftsman – he didn't feel the need to knock anymore – and grinned at Charlie as he stepped out of the kitchen and came forward to meet him. "Hey, bro," he said, as Charlie smiled back at him and they exchanged a kind of lazy, awkward, one-armed man-hug that ended with Don pulling him in and roughing his knuckles in Charlie's curls.

"Hey!" said Charlie, pushing him away, laughing. "Come on, Dad left us lasagna before he went out."

Don trailed him into the kitchen, and Charlie handed him a glass of red wine and picked up one himself and took a sip. He couldn't stop smiling. Don raised his eyebrows. "Wine, huh? What's the occasion?"

"Nothing," said Charlie, but he flushed, dropping his eyes.

Don grinned back at him, and took a good-sized swallow of wine. "You're a lousy liar."

"Just drink your wine," said Charlie, taking another sip, and he turned and opened the oven door, and studied the bubbling lasagna. "It's hot – maybe too hot. I'm going to take it out and let it cool." He grabbed oven mitts and pulled the pan out of the oven and set it on the stovetop, then discarded the mitts, shut the oven door, turned it off, and turned around and picked up his wine glass again. Don hadn't said anything else during the process, but Charlie suddenly capitulated, as if he was breaking under intense interrogation. "All right, I give." He took a breath. "Let's go sit down."

' _Sit down_?' Don thought, his gut tightening. He suddenly didn't like the sound of this. Why did they need to sit down? He followed Charlie into the living room, and they sat on the sofa. Charlie set his wine on the coffee table, shuffling aside a pile of mail to make room for it, and as he did so, his eyes widened, and he hurriedly fished out a piece of it. It was a letter, Don could see, and it was addressed to Charlie. Don recognized the flowing handwriting – it was Amita's. The envelope had an express mail stamp.

Charlie's face broke into a soft, amazed smile, and then he looked up at Don, his grin deepening. "She wrote me," he said, unnecessarily. "We've been talking on the phone, but this is the first letter she's sent…" He broke off, staring at it, a smile still on his face.

Don tried not to frown, and he cleared his throat. "What were you going to tell me?"

Charlie tore his gaze away from the letter, reluctantly, and waved it with a shy, eager smile. "I'm going to India, tomorrow," he said. "I booked a flight – it leaves at five tomorrow evening."

Don tried to conjure up a smile, and set his wine glass down on the coffee table a little more sharply than he intended to. "They gave the okay for a visit?"

Charlie's smile wavered a little. "Well, not exactly."

Don's brow knit. "How do you know she will be – okay – while you're there?"

Charlie took a deep breath and looked at him squarely. "I don't. But I'm going to stay awhile, until she is. A few weeks, if it takes that long. It's summer break – I've got the time." He paused. "I may go back and forth a few times. I feel like I should be there – annulment notwithstanding. She was my wife, Don, and she needs me right now." He paused again, his dark eyes wide, searching Don's face.

Don stared at him, his gut in a knot. Charlie's relationship with Amita seemed to be escalating again and in a big way; his father's fears were justified. He picked up his wine and said, trying to sound casual, "And where do think this is going?"

Charlie shrugged, his brow furrowed and he rubbed it. "I don't know, honestly. We're obviously hoping they'll be able to cure her, or provide a treatment to stabilize her enough so that she can be released."

"She can't come back to the U.S., even if she is released."

"I know," sighed Charlie. "But if she gets to that point, I'll have a decision to make. We could get re-married, in India. I could apply for Indian citizenship if that happened, and teach at the University of Delhi, and come back and forth and do some guest lecturing at Cal Sci. A lot of business people travel all over the world all the time, and come back and forth. I could do something like that. If I did, I'd split my time between here and there."

Don couldn't speak. After all they'd gone through together, and after finally reaching a level of closeness, Charlie was contemplating leaving? And not just a few states away – to the other goddamned side of the world.

"I still love her, Don," Charlie continued softly. "And I feel like I should be there to support her, no matter whether she's well or not. Especially since she isn't well – she needs me." He paused again, and when he still got no response, he continued a little more desperately. "She remembers me now. She told me she loves me. She's – she's _Amita_ , again."

Don tried to find his breath. His voice came out flat-sounding. "Did you tell Dad?"

Charlie swallowed and shook his head, glancing downward. "Not yet. I know he'll be upset. I figured I'd wait until tomorrow – no sense ruining his evening. I wanted to ask you what you think about it before I take this step, because it affects you, too." He looked up. "I'll be back and forth, to visit. Amita can't come back to the U.S., but I can. I'll take some guest lecturing assignments at Cal Sci when I'm here. I'll even keep the house. With the internet being what it is these days, I can probably even still work cases with you. I don't want to give that up – to give up what we have. I can Skype with you and the team. I'll find a way to make it all work." He was fidgeting with the letter. Don could tell he wanted to read it.

"I guess I don't know what to say," Don said finally. "You're assuming she'll be okay, eventually – what if she's not? Would they even let you marry her again, if she didn't recover?"

Emotion flared in Charlie's eyes. "She'll recover," he said firmly. "I'll help the doctors – we'll search the earth for a cure, or at least medication to control it. And she must be already getting better if the doctors are letting her call me. I talked to her just four nights ago – I called her out of the blue; it was her morning, and she was fine." He stood while he was speaking, as if to emphasize his point. "And while we're getting to the point where she can be released, I am going to work with a lawyer in the U.S. and gather evidence to get her case tossed – the ultimate goal will be for both of us to move back here."

Don stared up at him for a moment. He was afraid that Charlie was going to get his heart broken – and he had the uncomfortable feeling that his own heart was going to take a beating, in the process. He wanted so badly to tell him _no, don't do it_. He stood slowly, however, and said, "Charlie, I want whatever makes you happy."

He saw relief flow into Charlie's face, and his younger brother stepped forward and gave him a heartfelt hug, and Don hugged back hard, holding Charlie's head against his shoulder. Don felt tears welling up, and he said roughly as he released him, "Go read your letter – I know you want to. I'm going to drink this wine and help you figure out what to tell Dad."

He turned away and reached down for his glass to hide the moisture in his eyes, but not before he saw matching wetness on his brother's lashes, and the look of mingled sadness and gratitude on Charlie's face. "I'll be just a minute," he said, as he stepped away, loosening the letter from its envelope.

Don sank back down on the sofa and downed a good half of his wine. He had a brief Pavlovian urge to pick up the remote and turn on the TV because that was what he always did when he sat in that spot and he was trying to appear normal, but he couldn't – he couldn't fathom watching anything at a time like this – listening to blaring banality when his brother was about to walk out of his life… probably for good, because Amita wasn't going to get better anytime soon. Charlie was kidding himself and throwing his life away in the process, and his relationship with his brother and father, along with it. And what if Amita _was_ released, and relapsed? It could be dangerous, living with someone that unstable… He had a sudden vision of a small house, dark and quiet in the Indian night, and Amita creeping into the bedroom with a knife, and he threw it off, with a shudder.

Just then he heard an exclamation and movement, and his head jerked to his right, as Charlie came flying toward him, his face dead white. "She's –," he started, then he flung the letter at Don as he passed behind the sofa, heading for his cell phone on the dining room table, stammering something unintelligible.

Don rose and stared at him as Charlie jabbed frantically at his cell phone, and then looked down at the letter on the sofa cushion and picked it up. He started to read, slowly and then faster, as Charlie said, "Amita Ramanujan, Room 501, please. N-no – I need to talk to her _now._ No, I can't call back! I need to talk to her, or her doctor, right away!"

 _My dear Charlie –_ the letter began.

 _I want to tell how much I love you – how much my real self has always loved you. You brought me back to myself for a brief time, and it has been enough for me to understand how much you love me as well, and what I must do._

 _You told me you would come for me and you would wait for me to get better, and your promise made my heart sing. I have spent some time reviewing my files, however, and I have come to realize that I am not getting better, in spite of the fact that the doctors have let me speak to you when I am lucid. In fact, I am getting worse. These last two weeks we didn't talk much because I couldn't; I was not myself most of that time. I am following the same path as my uncle and my cousin, and my illness seems to be progressing more rapidly than theirs. I have seen them both since I have been here, and it is not good. This illness is a long, dark descent into hell, and it drags everyone that the victims love into hell with them._

Charlie was pleading on the phone, dialing and redialing, trying to leave messages. "Tapti, please pick up! You need to get to the hospital, now!" Don stared at him for a moment in shock, and looked back down at the letter, with mounting fear.

 _Charlie, please forgive me, but I can't do that to you – I've already done enough to you, and I know you. I know you would never give up, and you would wait for me for years – for nothing. I don't want those years of despair for myself, Charlie, and I don't want you to have them either. By the time you read this, I will be gone. I've already managed to get the medication I need to do it; I will just go to sleep. It will be peaceful, and you can take comfort in knowing I've gone to a better place. I will always love you. Please go on from this – I don't want to do this in vain. Live your life again, find someone and love again – do it for me. I love you always, Amita_

The letter was sealed with a kiss at the bottom, the faint pink imprint of her lips. Don let it fall on the coffee table and suddenly found his feet and began to step toward Charlie just as the house phone rang. Charlie darted over to it frantically, listened for a fraction of a second, then blurted, "Tapti – Tapti, are you at the hospital? You need to get to Amita – what?" And with that word, his voice stilled, and he froze, listening. "No," he moaned, "No, _please_." He stood for another split second, zombie-like, and hung up the phone and turned, dazedly staring at Don with his lips parted, his breath hitching, his face filled with a silent plea, as if beseeching Don to somehow fix something. Don looked at him and saw his heart breaking, felt his own breaking with it, and he stepped forward and pulled him in, holding him tightly as Charlie collapsed and slumped against him, and the tears came.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," he whispered into his brother's curls, dampened by his own tears. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

Alan Eppes stepped out of his car later that evening, noting Don's SUV in the driveway. A smile came to his lips as he remembered the last time he came in late; he had found his two sons sleeping on the sofa in the aftermath of an apparent truce. Their relationship had seemed to be on the mend ever since; it looked as though things were finally getting back to normal.

He stepped inside quietly in case they were asleep, and his smile dimmed a bit as he saw Don sitting by himself on the sofa, in silence. His face was somber, and Alan's first thought was that they had an argument – but then why would Don still be sitting here? If that had happened he would have headed back to his apartment. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Don just looked at him, and said quietly, "She's gone, Dad. Amita's gone."

Alan stepped backward a half-step, as if the words had hit him physically. He couldn't say anything for a moment, then he found his voice. "What? What do you mean? Where's Charlie?"

Don rose and guided him over to his chair. "Charlie's upstairs, in bed. I found something in the medicine cabinet that looked like sleeping medication, and I gave him one. I'm not sure if he's sleeping yet, but I told him to lie down." Alan shrugged off his jacket and sat, looking at Don in bewilderment, as Don picked up a letter and handed it to him.

He spoke as Alan began to read. "Charlie got this letter today – he opened it a few minutes after I got here. He immediately tried to get on the phone, and while he was trying to call, Tapti called him on the house phone. She had just gotten to the hospital, and she had walked in on the staff trying to resuscitate Amita – or at least the aftermath of that. Amita had apparently had gotten her hands on some sedatives somehow, and overdosed. The staff had just found her and tried to resuscitate her as a matter of protocol, but as it turned out, they thought that she had already been gone a few hours."

Alan felt tears starting as he read the letter, and by the time he was done, they were streaming down his face. "Oh, no. Poor Charlie." He ran a hand down his face.

"He was going there, you know." Don was pale, and his voice was strained. "He told me when I got here tonight – he was going to tell you tomorrow. He was talking about moving to India, Dad. He was going to teach at the University of Delhi, and obtain Indian citizenship, and wait for her to get better. When – if –she was released they were going to get married again."

Alan stared at him dumbfounded, still wiping his face. "That – that sounds - ,"

"Crazy?" Don finished. "I thought so, too – or at least unbelievably optimistic. He meant it though. He has a plane ticket booked for 5:00 p.m. tomorrow."

Alan stared at him and Don looked back, and he could read his thoughts in his son's eyes. Amita's death was horrible, heartbreaking, and Charlie would be devastated – but it might be the best thing that could have happened to him in the long run. Alan could see Don thinking the same thing, and could read the same emotions on his face – grief for Charlie and for the Amita they once knew, marred by relief - relief for Charlie as they contemplated the likely sad and futile future that he had avoided by her death, and further relief for themselves that he would now not being moving away from them. And on the heels of that, other emotions; the remorse and self-loathing that came with that relief.

They sat together in sad and guilty silence, and listened to the soft tick of the grandfather clock.

End, Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Charlie slumped in his window seat on the plane, his eyes on the puffy clouds illuminated by the late evening sun. He had decided to keep his flight on Saturday and fly to Delhi for the funeral. He was traveling alone; both his father and his brother had passports but neither had an Indian visa, and couldn't obtain one in time for the trip, and on top of that the flight was booked solid. His father was worried about him, Charlie knew, but he needed to go; he felt he was called, somehow. He had promised Amita he would come, and he would keep that promise.

He was getting there late, even though he was leaving the very next day. Amita had been found at nine in the morning on Saturday Delhi time, 7:30 in the evening Friday L.A. time. By Hindu custom, she should have been cremated the next day, Sunday, after a viewing. However, Charlie's flight did not take off until Saturday evening L.A. time, 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning, Delhi time, and it was a 16 hour and 30 minute flight; he would not arrive until 10:30 p.m. Sunday night. As soon as Sanjay and Tapti knew he was coming, they made arrangements for the viewing and cremation for Monday, instead of Sunday.

He arrived in Delhi hours later, exhausted almost to the point of delirium. He hadn't slept well Friday night in spite of the sleeping medication; he'd been too consumed by grief. And although he had dozed off and on during the flight, the periods of sleep were brief; the sitting position not restful.

The airport was big and noisy, with lights that seemed too bright after the dimness of the aircraft. He made it out of the concourse into the main terminal and Sanjay spotted him before Charlie could see him in the crowd – he walked over to Charlie, and gave Charlie a brief hug. Sanjay looked sad and tired as well, and Charlie felt a stab of guilt at being the cause of him being out so late, or out at all at such a time. He was accompanied by a younger man in his twenties; Sanjay introduced him as his nephew, Vijay. They walked out into the night, humid and dark and teeming with strange sounds and smells, and Vijay drove them to the Ramanujan residence.

On the way, Charlie alternated between desperately trying to keep his eyes open and fielding the few questions that Sanjay asked. Was his flight all right? Had he eaten? Had he been able to rest? They were questions that Charlie's own father would have asked. He answered yes to all to make sure that Sanjay would not feel the need to provide any further care. Finally, they were there, in a wealthier section of town in southeast Delhi. Inside, Charlie had vague impressions of large rooms with high ceilings, mostly dark, with marble floors and heavy expensive furniture, as he was led by Sanjay to a bedroom. Tapti was nowhere to be seen but it was near midnight; she was probably sleeping. Sanjay turned on the light in the room and indicated a set of white clothing on the bed. "We took the liberty of getting you funeral wear," he said. "At a Hindu funeral, you are to wear white, modest clothing. Those are Vijay's; they should fit you well enough."

Charlie faced him, his eyes somber. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Sanjay nodded, grief filling his face, and he gave Charlie a gentle hug. "I am sorry also, my son."

He bade him a soft good night and stepped down the hallway. Charlie stepped into the room and shut the door. The room was large, with an adjoining bathroom. Charlie looked around, at a loss for a moment, then carefully picked up the clothing from the bed and laid it neatly out on a dresser. There was an adapter there; someone had been thoughtful enough to provide it so he didn't fry his cell phone on the 220 voltage used in India. He checked his phone; there was still a little charge, and he sent a text message to his father to let him know he'd arrived and attached the adapter and plugged in his phone.

He woke up in the middle of the night, still fully clothed; passed out on the bed. He managed to get his clothes off, crept under a blanket, and cried himself back to sleep.

* * *

He was up early the next day; he'd only slept six hours, but his body clock told him it was early evening in L.A., and he should be awake. He shaved and showered and washed his hair, and dressed in pants and a button shirt, leaving the funeral wear until later. He stepped quietly out of the room and made his way down a hallway into a large foyer. From there, another hallway branched toward the back of the house, and he hesitated, then headed that way. The house was huge and quiet; marble and mahogany, tapestries and wool rugs.

The hallway led into an atrium and then into a small quiet courtyard, where a tea service had been set up. Tapti was there, sitting in her garden, and she turned a sad smile on Charlie as he came up. "I hope I'm not intruding," he said.

Tapti rose and took his face in her hands and kissed his cheek. "Nonsense," she said. "It was so good of you to come."

Tears threatened again suddenly and he sat and tried to compose himself before he said softly, "I already had plans to come. I already had my flight and visa."

She poured tea for him and looked up at him as she did so. "I was wondering how you managed to make arrangements so quickly."

"Thank you," said Charlie as he accepted the tea. It was oolong, hot and bracing. He lowered the cup after a sip. "I was planning to move here."

Tapti's eyes widened, and he nodded in affirmation. "I had already applied for citizenship, and applied at the University of Delhi for a teaching position. I was going to stay here with Amita while she – got better."

Tapti's eyes filled, and she raised a shaking hand to her forehead for a moment, trying to gain composure, then looked up again. "I'm so sorry, Charlie. She was so lucky to have you." She reached over and placed a hand on Charlie's. "She knew it at the end, how much you loved her and how lucky she was. She remembered how much in love with you she was. When she was – herself – all she talked about was you." She paused, took a sip of tea, pensively. "Do you know anything about Hindu funeral custom?"

Charlie shook his head, apologetically. "I'm afraid not."

Tapti nodded, as if she expected the response. "Today we will have a funeral service and a viewing with an open casket at a temple. There will be prayers and hymns. Everyone wears white, simple clothing. Afterward, she is taken for cremation. On the fourth day, which will be Wednesday, there is another ceremony. The ashes are to be sprinkled on a sacred body of water. In Delhi, that is the river Yamuna. Then on the 12th or 13th day is a feast, to show appreciation for the life of the departed. That also marks the day when the soul completes its travels through a ghost world and reaches the land of the ancestors. However, since Amita's death was a suicide, the devout believe she will remain in the ghost world. There will be some who will not attend the feast because of their beliefs. However, we wish to hold it anyway, to celebrate the person she was before she became ill. You are welcome to stay until then – for as long as you want."

Charlie felt his gut contract. He was going to see Amita today – but if she was being cremated it would be the last day he would ever look at her. And they would sprinkle her ashes on a river he would probably never see again… he wasn't sure how he felt about that. If he had still been her husband, he would be making those decisions. He didn't know what decision he would have made, but he wasn't sure how Amita would have felt about having her ashes sprinkled on some strange river in India. She had grown up a California girl. Still, her parents and extended family were Hindu, and he was no longer her husband. He would need to respect their traditions.

Tapti was watching him closely and he bowed his head. "Thank you for helping me understand your customs."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then Sanjay appeared along with breakfast, served by a maid, and her words were left unsaid.

* * *

The viewing was held at the Lakshmi Narayan Temple, a shrine dedicated to the Lord Vishnu and Goddess Lakshmi, an exotic palace-like structure of red and gold. Charlie had changed into the white pants and white button shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, the pants held up by a simple black belt, and from outward appearances he fit into the similarly attired throng, with his dark hair. He felt exposed somehow, however; he could feel the glances and outright stares from the rest of the group, some fleeting, some speculative, and to his confusion, some hostile. It was a larger crowd than Charlie would have expected, composed of the Ramanujans' friends, extended family and friends of family. Most of them appeared educated and affluent. At the moment, he didn't care what they were thinking, because they had moved into a large room and at the end of it, on a raised platform, he could see the casket.

He felt it hard to breathe suddenly, and he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He was following the Ramanujans down to the front of the room through a row between chairs, and Vijay, who spoke decent English and had apparently been instructed to watch over him, was by his side. Charlie was aware of the cavernous room with its high ceilings and pillars, and flowers everywhere, especially on the dais, where the casket sat. Incense burned, its sweet smoky scent mixing with the scent of the flowers. The Ramanujans took seats at the front, with Charlie and Vijay next to them, and Vijay seated next to his mother, Sanjay's sister. Other senior members of the Ramanujan family also sat in front, some of them with angry looks at Charlie. He looked away from them, frowning a little, but really had no faculties left to worry about why they seemed angry. His eyes were fixed on the casket in front of them.

He couldn't see into it because of the height of the dais, and he numbly wondered if that was good or not. He both longed to see her, and dreaded it – well, at least dreaded his reaction. He wasn't sure if he could keep his composure when he finally looked at her, and just the memory of her face was enough to bring on tears. He bowed his head to hide them, joining Tapti, who was already crying.

A man dressed in robes, a priest, came to the front of the room, and then came a long session of hymns and prayers. It was a beautiful ceremony, Charlie was sure, and it moved several in the crowd to tears, but he couldn't understand the language. At that moment, he fully appreciated the need for religion; he felt an unaccountable need to hear prayers from his own Jewish faith, although he had lapsed from observing it long ago. He spent the time trying to quell tears and alternately desperate for and dreading the moment when he would get to see her again.

At length the service ended, and the viewing began. The mourners began to file up to the dais led by Sanjay and Tapti, and Charlie and Vijay and his mother after them. Tapti and Sanjay ascended the ramp at the side platform, and Charlie and Vijay followed, although they remained respectfully back at the top of the ramp while the Ramanujans stepped in front of the casket. From where Charlie stood, he still could not see her face; there were flowers draped over her body and they hid her face from view. "You will get another chance to see her at the end, when everyone else leaves," whispered Vijay, as they waited. Then the Ramanujans bowed their heads and moved on.

For a moment, Charlie couldn't move, then he managed to will his feet to take him forward. He came to a halt in front of the casket, and caught his breath.

She looked beautiful, peaceful in her white dress, as if she were sleeping in a field of flowers; they were draped across her, in her hair, beautiful exotic blooms. She looked the same, but somehow not; perhaps a little thinner, but that was not the difference. The expression on her face was contrived to be natural but it was posed, just a tiny bit off from reality, just enough to remind him that she was no longer there, as if a veil had been dropped between her body and who she really was, her essence, separating them forever. The reality of her loss was forced home, and hit Charlie so hard, he felt he would drop to his knees. She couldn't be gone…

He stared at her through his tears until Vijay gently touched his arm, and then he turned and somehow shuffled to the other end of the dais and down the ramp, managing to get back in his seat without keeling over. There he bowed his head, no longer bothering to fight the tears. Hindu funeral processions were apparently quiet; reserved. Vijay handed him a handkerchief, and he sat there with his head down through the long, interminable procession, punctuated just by the random shuffle of a foot or the occasional soft sob.

Finally, it was over, and people began filing out, many coming forward to pay respects to Sanjay and Tapti, some with a quiet nod to Charlie, but most of them ignored him. A few of the closer relatives went back up on the dais again, but the majority of the people were congregating outside in the sunshine in the courtyard, talking quietly. Once everyone on the dais had cleared away, Charlie walked back up. He wasn't ready to let her go; he would stay there with her as long as they let him. "I love you, Amita," he whispered, and his tears flowed again, until he had no more left. There was an aching void in his heart; his body seemed numb.

Finally, Vijay came up on the dais with him and whispered, "It is time. We must go."

Charlie nodded, catching a dry sob in his throat, whispering, "Good-bye, Amita. You'll always be with me." He put out a hand and gently touched her dress, then took a deep breath, and turned away.

He followed Vijay down the dais in a stupor and out through the empty rows of seats. There were several people still milling about the courtyard, and Charlie went to stand by a group that surrounded Sanjay and Tapti. Suddenly shouting arose; an older man in another group, around Sanjay's age, was shouting and pointing a finger at them. Anger flared in Sanjay's eyes and he retorted sharply back, and the man made as if to come forward, but others in the group held him back. Vijay pulled Charlie backwards, back behind the others they were standing with.

Charlie was blinking in the bright sunlight, staring at the man. "What's going on?" The man shouted again, and one of the men in Sanjay's group strode over to him and began to lecture him, sternly.

Vijay hesitated, uncertainly. "The man is a devout Hindu. He is angry that Amita committed suicide."

Charlie frowned. "Why was he yelling at Sanjay? It's not as if he could help it."

Vijay looked away at the man, then looked back. "His name is Suresh. He was yelling at you."

Charlie stared at him in surprise and looked back at the man. Suresh was arguing with the man who had walked over to him. Vijay said, "He is angry at Sanjay and Tapti for raising Amita in the U.S. and at you for your influence on her. The family is well aware that she really didn't practice Hinduism strictly and he blames Sanjay and Tapti for being lax and for the U.S. culture for its corrupting influence. To them, you represent that culture." He shrugged apologetically. "All those in this group near Sanjay and Tapti are more progressive; they believe as they do. Our feeling is that Amita gave her life out of regard for the suffering of others, so that you and her parents would not be forced to witness her slow decline, so that her suicide is not truly a sin. The others over there with Suresh, they are, I think you call it 'old school' – they think the suicide is a sin."

He shrugged. "You should not worry about them. They are intolerant people. However, it might be best if we take a walk and get out of their sight. Come, I will show you some more of the temple."

He led Charlie away from the courtyard and into the next section of the temple, which was huge; the wing that they had been in was just a small portion of the complex. Charlie felt heartsick to know that a part of the family did not want him there – not so much for himself, but for Sanjay and Tapti. He didn't want to be the cause of a rift between family members.

They wandered through the quiet grandeur for a half hour, and then returned to the courtyard. By then it was mostly empty, save for Sanjay and Tapti and their close friends and family. As they approached, Charlie glanced back in through the doors to the wing of the temple where the service had been held, his eyes seeking out the dais. The casket was gone.

End Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Many thanks to all for your comments. I had some notes with the last chapter, but they didn't save for some reason. That chapter was part personal experience (long overseas flights that I have taken for work) and part research (Hindu funeral customs), but mostly focused on an attempt to depict personal loss. Anyway, again thanks to all of you who have been kind enough to review. The remaining chapters, including this one, will take some sizable jumps in the timeline._

Chapter 25

The next two days passed in a blur. Charlie spent much of it in the Ramanujans' courtyard; he couldn't seem to muster energy to do much of anything. He forced himself to eat at mealtimes; food had no appeal. Thankfully, the Ramanujans seemed to understand his need for solitude; they were apparently in need of some of that themselves. Nights were his only escape; fitful as his sleep was, he was at least unconscious for part of it. On the second day, he made flight reservations for his trip home.

The fourth day after Amita's death, they made the trip to the river Yamuna. It was brief and uneventful – the family was all there again, including Suresh, but although glowering, he kept his mouth shut. The ceremony was simple, and at the end of it, Sanjay and Tapti sprinkled Amita's ashes into the river. Charlie felt a little pang at not being included in that piece of it; he'd been relegated to the status of an outsider. He knew better than to ask, however; he understood that he should keep a low profile.

That evening, he sought out Tapti and Sanjay, who had retired to a sitting room after dinner. "I wanted you to know that I am leaving tomorrow evening," he said quietly, as he faced them. "My flight leaves at two in the afternoon. I already spoke to Vijay; he is going to take me to the airport. I wanted to thank you for – for everything."

"You are not staying for the feast of the departed?" asked Tapti.

Charlie tried to read her face. Was she disappointed? Relieved? "No," he said softly. "I think my presence would just be upsetting to some of your family."

"Pah!" Sanjay scoffed. "You don't need to worry about them; Suresh is an intolerant fool." He looked at Charlie, searchingly. "You have had enough, though, I think," he said gently. "And the feast of the departed is several days away yet. We understand. But then there is something we need to talk about. Please come in and sit."

Charlie sat, and Sanjay promptly rose and disappeared, and there was an odd uncomfortable moment while they waited for him to come back. Tapti was smiling at him, a sad gentle smile as she said, "Charlie, I know this has been difficult for you. I realize from the plans that you had made to come here to India that you had hopes for her recovery, and I think Amita did, too. The doctors told us they found her a few days before she died, crying in a conference room. She had managed to find her video tapes and the doctor's notes, and when she read them, she realized how sick she was, and that her illness was progressing. She was not going to recover, Charlie; you need to understand that. Sanjay and I came to that realization already, and the knowledge makes her loss somewhat more bearable. She gave us a gift with her life but also with her departure, and she would want you to move on and live your life. You are very young, yet."

Charlie nodded quietly. "She said that – she wrote me a letter. It arrived the day she died. It was why I called the hospital; why I tried to call you when I did."

Sanjay came back into the room then, with an ornate, carved box. He stood in front of Charlie, and Charlie rose from the chair.

"These are Amita's remains," said Sanjay, quietly, holding out the box.

Charlie stared at him, and took the box from him slowly. "I don't understand. We scattered her ashes in the Yamuna today."

Sanjay shook his head. "That was to placate the family. Those ashes were remains of the flowers, incense and sandalwood from the ceremony. Amita was from California. That was the place she loved, and the person she loved most was you. It is our fond wish that you will take her back with you, and decide where the proper place is that her ashes should be. Decide where the place was that she loved most. That she be cremated according to Hindu custom was enough for us. You were her husband, you should be allowed to make this decision. And you will know, better than us, what her last wishes might have been. Our daughter was beautiful, and intelligent, and strong-minded." He smiled. "She would not want her remains in the Yamuna River. We want to honor her memory properly."

Charlie felt his eyes stinging, and he bowed his head, staring down at the beautifully carved wooden box. "Thank you," he whispered. He looked up. "I will make sure to carry out your wish."

Tapti rose and came over to him, and hugged him. "At first, we were not sure of you, because you were not Hindu," she said. "But as time went on, we realized that we were foolish. We could not ask for a better son, and a better husband for our daughter. God-speed, Charlie. Remember what I told you."

* * *

Don pulled his vehicle to the curb, opened the door and stood, scanning the LAX crowd. He spotted Charlie's dark curly hair, and waved. "Charlie! Over here!"

Charlie saw him and moved toward him and Don rounded the front of his vehicle, taking the long way to the back, so he could head off Charlie on the other side and take his bag for him. He looked pale, gaunt and exhausted, and in spite of his initial surge of relief at seeing him, Don's heart dropped. Charlie was carrying two bags, his suitcase and a small cardboard box with a handle, and Don grabbed the larger one from him. "Here, let me take that." He swung around the back of the SUV and put the bag in the back, and started back around to give his brother a hug, but Charlie was already climbing into the SUV with the box, so he headed back for the driver's seat.

He started the SUV and pulled out into the stream of traffic creeping past LAX, and glanced over at Charlie. "Welcome home," he said softly.

"Thanks." Charlie's voice was soft and raspy, and he leaned against the door and shut his eyes. "Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem," said Don. "I worked Sunday – had a gang shooting to cover. I had some time off coming." He glanced at Charlie again. He looked emaciated – he had surely lost that five pounds he had gained back after his surgery, if not more. "Didn't they feed you over there?"

Charlie shot him an irritated look. "Yes, they did, and I ate. Cut me a break. You sound like Dad." He straightened up in his seat, still holding the box carefully, a frown on his face.

' _Uh-oh, cranky_ ,' thought Don. ' _Although he has every right to be_.' He decided to change the subject. "What's in the box?"

Charlie gave him an odd look, the frown left his face, and his shoulders slumped a little. He'd gone from irritated to sad in the space of a breath. He mumbled something, and Don said, "What?"

"Amita."

"What about Am- ," Don began, and then his eyes widened, and he looked back at the box, and then at the road. "Oh."

He decided to shut up then, and a couple of miles later, he glanced over to see Charlie leaning against the door again, fast asleep. Don reached over and gently picked up the box by its handle, and set it safely in the rear foot well behind Charlie's seat. He looked over at Charlie from time to time during the remainder of the trip, studying him, and it brought a frown to his face. Charlie didn't appear well, at all. He was frighteningly thin, and apparently exhausted. Don didn't have to speculate about his emotional state; he was pretty sure it was dismal.

About forty-five minutes later he pulled up to the Craftsman, and Charlie woke, looking dazed, then jerked upright with a start. "Relax," Don said, "It's behind you."

He let Charlie get the precious box from behind the seat, and he brought his larger bag into the house. Charlie walked into the living room, blinking, still trying to shake off sleep. He set the box on the coffee table and opened it, and carefully pulled out an ornately carved wooden container, and then, seemingly at a loss, looked around him. He finally settled on an empty spot on a shelf – a safe spot up out of reach, and carefully set the box there, next to Don's picture - the one that Amita had taken. It just happened to be the spot where Charlie's picture had once stood – the picture that Amita had apparently smashed. Sanjay and Tapti had returned the picture of Don before they left for India, which now sat next to the box of ashes. The proximity of the two objects made Don feel oddly uncomfortable. Then finally, Charlie seemed to notice that their father wasn't home. "Where's dad?"

"He had a doctor's appointment – a routine physical," Don hastened to add, as he saw Charlie's eyes widen. "He said he's had the appointment for a long time, and it takes them a long time to reschedule a physical. I told him to go ahead and go and get it done – that I'd get you. Just sit down and rest; I'll make you a sandwich."

"I've been sitting for hours," Charlie grumbled. Back to irritated again. Don pushed through the kitchen door, and started poking around for sandwich fixings.

He managed to prepare what looked like a couple of decent turkey and cheese sandwiches. He wasn't in the kitchen long, but when he went out to get Charlie he found him fast asleep on the sofa, his upper body lying sideways on the cushions. He had apparently sat down and just leaned over and went to sleep. Don hesitated a moment, wondering if he should let him nap, but then decided that from the looks of him, food was more important. He could nap afterward. He leaned over the back of the sofa and shook his shoulder, gently. 'Charlie – come in and get a sandwich, Bud, and then you can sleep."

Charlie sat up slowly and rubbed his face, and was so unsteady as he got to his feet that Don decided to wait for him, watching as he rounded the sofa. He was just about to turn and fall in beside him, when Charlie stopped in front of him and mumbled, "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

He looked utterly defeated, and Don pulled him into his arms and just held him, and Charlie leaned into him, limply, and hugged back. God he was thin; he was just bones under his loose button down shirt – he was even thinner than he looked, Don realized with a pang. "It's okay, Buddy; I know it's tough."

There was a stifled sob and Don tightened his grip just slightly, his own eyes tearing up a little, and just held him, waiting two full minutes until Charlie straightened before he relinquished his grip. Then he stepped back but put an arm around him, walking him to the kitchen door, as Charlie ran a hand over his face.

They ate in silence, Charlie slumped over his plate, clearly not interested in the food, but Don wouldn't let him up until he was done and Charlie didn't fight him, dutifully getting the sandwich down, although it seemed to take forever.

Then Don walked him upstairs to his room and Charlie crawled onto his bed and collapsed face down, not even noticing that while he was gone, Don and their father had re-arranged the room, changing the position of the bed back to the way Charlie used to have it before Amita started sharing it with him. Don pulled off his shoes and tossed a blanket over him, and then quietly let himself out.

Downstairs, he stopped in the middle of the living room, indecisively, and his eyes traveled to the wooden box on the shelf. He ran a hand though his hair and let rest it on top of his head, his other hand on his hip, just standing there for a moment. This was going to be tough, and he wasn't sure what he could do to make it better.

* * *

It was a long, slow slog, just as Don had feared. Charlie was back at school in a week, way too early in Don's opinion, and back at the FBI offices three months later, helping out on cases again. He would have been there sooner, except Don had refused to ask him to consult until then. Yes, mentally, Charlie was back, but even now, a full six months later, he was a shadow of his former self, physically and emotionally. He was still way too thin, way too quiet; his usually bright and energetic demeanor dimmed.

Don had done his best to be there for him, and he would continue to be – just as he was today, as he carried takeout burgers from Pie and Burger from his SUV to Charlie's office. They had lunch once a week, no matter what – sometimes at Charlie's office, sometimes downtown near Don's offices. Plus they got together at least one evening a week, often two, if one of the nights included their father. Alan had moved back into Charlie's house for the time being – mostly to keep the house from seeming so lonely, but he also kept an eye on Charlie, to make sure he ate and slept properly. On a personal level, it seemed as though Charlie had regressed back to his pre-Amita bachelorhood, living at home with his father. More disturbingly, it didn't seem to bother him. Don didn't bring it up, though – their father living with Charlie was the best thing for him, right now, without a doubt.

There was one thing that he did feel that Charlie needed to do, however, and that was to finish saying good-bye to Amita. He still had boxes of her files in his office, moved there when another teacher had been hired and transferred into her office. And he still had the wooden box containing her ashes, sitting where he'd left it months ago, on the shelf in the living room.

He had reached Charlie's office, and Don gave a quick knock and pushed the door open. Charlie was seated at his desk, scribbling on paper, and he glanced up as Don said, "Hey, Chuck."

"Hey." Charlie's voice was quiet, as he looked back down, still scribbling, with no apparent reaction to the hated nickname. "I'm almost done here."

Don shot a look at the corner as he set the burgers on the desk; the boxes of files still sat there, unopened. He began pulling burgers and fries out of the bag. Charlie glanced at the contents of the bag and Don was glad to see he looked at least slightly interested in lunch.

They settled back in their chairs and talked about cases for a while as they ate. Don was starving; he wolfed down his burger as his brother talked. Charlie had been working on a project since before everything had happened with Amita – using footage from video cameras based in high gang-activity areas in downtown L.A. to predict when violent activity might occur, and where. It was slow-going; Charlie said the algorithm would be extremely complex, and he wasn't even sure he had all the right variables captured, and how data entry would occur. Gathering data would be tedious; it would rely on technicians scanning video footage and trying to observe multiple visual events, categorizing them and inputting them into the program. He talked about that briefly, but it had taken a back burner to his work at school and the more pressing cases that had come up since he started working with Don again. The latest one involved the poisoning of two people at a prestigious cosmetics lab and that monopolized the conversation.

Charlie took a bite of his sandwich, and Don studied him. He'd gained back some of the weight he had lost in India, but not nearly enough. He pushed some fries toward Charlie. "Have some fries with that. You've been eating okay?"

Charlie made a face. "Yes, Dad." He sighed, trying to temper it with a smile. "I eat, okay? You and dad are just going to have to get used to the fact that I've gained the weight that I can, and that's just how it is."

Don nodded, picked up a fry, and chewed. He wasn't entirely convinced, but he decided to pick his battles. "And those files?" He inclined his head toward the boxes in the corner.

He could see Charlie retreat, draw in on himself. "What about them?"

"Charlie," said Don, gently. "It's not just her files; it's her ashes. It's been six months, Buddy. You need to let go sometime. And you told me about what her parents did – they broke with tradition and their four-day rule for scattering her ashes so they could give them to you. What do you think they would say if they knew you still had them?"

Charlie said stiffly, "They said I could do whatever I thought she would want with them."

"Yeah, Buddy, I know – but, six months? Do you think Amita would want that?"

Charlie set down his half-eaten sandwich and Don mentally cursed himself. He should have waited another minute or two to bring this up, until Charlie had finished his lunch. But then Charlie straightened in his chair, picked his sandwich back up and took a bite – but he directed his eyes down at his desk and started writing again. The whole sequence of movement said, ' _Look at me, I'm fine. I'm eating, so I'm fine – and I'm busy, so please eat your lunch and leave._ '

Don said nothing more, instead he rose, coming around Charlie's side of the desk. He laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Sorry, didn't mean to push. I have to get going. See you later."

Charlie mumbled his thanks for the lunch, and that he'd see Don at the FBI offices the next day. He kept his head down as he spoke, but Don could feel his eyes on his back as he walked out of the office.

End, Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Many thanks to you faithful reviewers who have been with me along the way. We're almost there. After this chapter, there are two more, and the next one includes yet another brother moment. But first, a little action…_

Chapter 26

Ree sat up straight in her chair, an enthusiastic smile on her face, as Forbes editor Roger Phipps leaned back in his chair. "Surely you don't want that picture article assignment," he said. "That project is merely data-gathering, not writing – it's just a glorified slide show. It really is beneath you."

"No, no, this would definitely be more in depth," said Ree. "I'd like my article to spin off that picture article on your top 10 mathematics and sciences universities' rankings for this year, and see how those ten schools stack up in terms of educating women. What percentage of undergraduate and graduate students are women – and how many women on the faculty? And then maybe pick a student at one of them, maybe a grad student, and do her story in more depth. Science and technology degrees are still overwhelmingly pursued by men. How do the women feel at those schools – do they think they fit in? Are they chosen for the plum research projects? How did they make the decision to pursue the degree in the first place; to choose a degree in a male-dominated field? And then maybe add in some research on starting salaries of male and female grads after they graduate."

Roger pursed his lips. "Yes, that's not bad – and a pretty relevant topic these days. Yes, we'd be willing to sponsor that. Why don't you get started with some research and see if you can find a female grad student willing to tell her story – then get back to me with the details."

Ree stood, smiling and shook Roger's hand. "Sure," she said. "I'll get back to you in a few days."

She walked out, still smiling but with uncharacteristic butterflies cavorting around her insides. She'd already done some research, and she'd already talked to a promising grad student who was interested in being interviewed – a young woman who just happened to be at Cal Sci, under the mentorship of one Charlie Eppes. It would just be too bad, she thought as she smiled to herself, if she had to interview the girl's mentor as part of the data gathering for the story. And the piece would give her a work-based excuse to be back in L.A., and a chance to talk to him again. And to see her sister, of course, she amended hastily. It was a great idea for an article, and she would get a chance to visit with Robin while she worked on it.

She sighed happily, and thought about dark curly hair and soulful dark eyes, all the way back to her hotel.

* * *

Two days later, Charlie reached into his desk and pulled out the picture as he had so many times before, and leaned back in his chair, studying it. The frame contained two shots, both selfies, which he and Amita had taken on a trip up the California coast a short time before their marriage. It had been a glorious day and although it had been a three hour drive there and back, the time had spun by rapidly as they laughed and talked and listened to music, picking up a picnic lunch at Pismo Beach, enjoying the coastal scenery on the Pacific Coast Highway. Their destination was a secluded spot on the seaside cliffs just south of Morro Bay. Larry had heard about it from an acquaintance who hiked; virtually no one knew of it. It was a short but steep hike up the back side of a cliff, and as the trail peaked it came out on the seaward side of the hill. The hiker was awarded a beautiful view of the Pacific below, with the added attraction of a grotto behind them that featured a very small but beautiful waterfall. The selfies included both of them – one shot with the Pacific behind them and one with the waterfall in the background. They had spread a blanket among the wildflowers and had a picnic, and Amita had declared it her favorite place on Earth.

He sighed at the photo and looked at their smiling faces, eyes glinting in the sun, dark hair whipping around their faces. They had been so happy that day; Charlie thought later it was one of the happiest of his life. He'd just assumed that there would be so many more…

His eyes fell on Amita's boxes in the corner and after months of ignoring them, today they drew him, as if they were a magnet. He rose from his desk, laid the picture down and went over to them, and opening the first one, began to sort through the papers.

He knew that Don was right, that he needed to bring Amita's ashes to their final resting place, and he even knew the place – it would be there, up on the cliffs near Morro Bay. It was just so hard to take that final step, to break that last link, because he knew there would never be anyone else for him. Don and his father wanted him to move on; Amita had wanted him to move on. What his father and brother – and especially brother – didn't understand was that it would be impossible to find anyone who loved him and understood him like Amita. His only two serious relationships had been with women mathematicians, and women his age who understood mathematics at his level were in short supply. His life was numbers, and he was certain that anyone who did not understand mathematical concepts would never be interested in him – and would never understand that life with him had to mean a life with those numbers, as well.

On top of dealing with a very limited female population, there were his own social inadequacies. He did not walk into a room and automatically attract every woman in it, like Don. His brother had no clue what it felt like to be socially awkward, to always be on the outside looking in. Among his other social shortcomings, Charlie had a tendency to draw into himself and immerse himself in his numbers for long periods of time; that was an integral and necessary part of life for him. He knew that was difficult for anyone to put up with. The fact that he had found, somehow attracted, and finally married Amita was an anomaly; a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. So for him, saying good-bye to her was not moving on to some other future; it was the relinquishment and abandonment of his one hope to have a normal relationship – married life the way normal people knew it. The end of together and the beginning of alone. Period. And although he was desperately happy for his brother and Robin, their togetherness just underscored his own lonely fate.

That sense of isolation had him clinging to the people he had left – his father, Larry, and especially Don. He knew that his father and Larry would never abandon him willingly; he had that at least. But Don was another matter. Their relationship had become closer in the past few years, and that closeness was something that Charlie had chased his whole life – and he also knew that because of where they had come from, that closeness was not a given. Don had been suspicious of how willing Charlie had been to forgive after he saw him kissing Amita, and a piece of Charlie knew he was right. He had readily forgiven Don – hell, forgiveness for him was a foregone conclusion, so obvious that he never thought to say it aloud until Don had asked him for it. Of course he would forgive, because after all, it had not been Don's fault, and really not Amita's either, because she hadn't been in her right mind. But even if it had been a real transgression, even if the two of them had been unfaithful, Charlie had the uncomfortable feeling that he might have tried to overlook it, to forgive, at least if he thought it had been a temporary lapse and not an ongoing affair. He knew that others might not understand that, but he also knew how it felt to lose both of them. He had experienced that after the kiss and he never wanted to go there again; it hurt too badly. He could barely handle losing one; losing Amita _and_ Don was unfathomable. Maybe if he were stronger emotionally right now, he'd feel differently, but he wasn't.

He stopped his musings short as he came upon a folder that, by the date on the tab, held some of Amita's last notes. He frowned as he read, a spear of sadness hitting him at the familiar handwriting. Toward the end she had apparently been working on a project somewhat similar to his, concerning trying to use the cameras stationed around L.A. to record activity in gang areas, in the hopes of coming up with some predictors that would help prevent violence. Charlie himself had hit a wall in his efforts – the manpower it took to analyze all of the footage in real time and try to read purpose into it was well over what the budget could support. Plus there was human error in the reading of it… He frowned again, trying to make sense out of Amita's rambling notes. Clearly she had been struggling with this – struggling to even stay on topic in her addled mental state, but there was something she was driving at, something she had been trying to put into words…

And then it hit him, and he gasped and smiled an incredulous smile, even as tears formed in his eyes. "Of course," he whispered to himself, as it became obvious to him what the answer was. "A.I." Artificial intelligence – still in its inception but being researched and used in many places in the world already. If they could get funding to develop the complex programming, they could use A.I. to examine the video footage and make predictions, instead of an army of technicians. It would be much more efficient and the resulting analysis more consistent. Amita had felt the presence of the solution – had known it was out there somewhere, and in spite of her severely handicapped thought processes had posed the correct questions to lead him to the answer. "You did it, Amita," he whispered, beaming through his tears. Somehow, through all of her muddled thoughts, her brilliance had shown through, even at the end. It felt as though her old self was there, reaching out to him, delivering one last gift.

He sighed and held the precious folder to his chest for a moment in folded arms, and his thoughts strayed back to his conversation with his brother.

Yes, Don was right; Charlie knew he had to make the trip to Morro Bay, and soon. Because he owed it to Amita; primarily – he couldn't argue with that, and because his brother thought it was the right thing to do for Charlie, himself. In an odd reversal of that sentiment, however, Charlie knew that he was doing this for Don and his father – so that they could have the comfort of _thinking_ he was moving on – even though that that notion was just a dream, a fiction. However, if acquiescing somehow solidified his few remaining relationships, then he would do it. Certainly, he did not want to rock the boat, or make his father or Don upset with him by not behaving how they thought he should – right now he needed them too badly. And of course, above all, he added hastily – it _was_ the right thing to do for Amita.

He nodded decidedly, set down the folder carefully in its box and resolutely wiped away tears, and walked over to his desk and began to write.

About an hour or two later there was delicate rap at his door, and Ree Brooks poked her head in. Charlie had almost forgotten that he'd made an appointment with her that afternoon to talk about an article she was writing. He felt a quiet surge of pleasure at the sight of her; he'd enjoyed talking to her at the barbeque at his house, months ago. And what wasn't to like? She was beautiful, funny, vivacious, and obviously very kind, to have put up with his morose behavior that evening.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said back, and then she smiled.

They stared at each other, smiling, for just split second longer than appropriate, then Charlie said hastily, "Have a seat. Tell me about your article."

* * *

Don and his team and Charlie met the next afternoon at the FBI offices on the poisoning case. They finished somewhat late, and as Don moved to his desk to close up for the day, he felt Charlie hovering. It felt oddly like the evening months ago, when Charlie had stopped by his desk and asked him to stop for a drink, and Don had declined because he was meeting Robin and Ree for dinner. And then the next evening, Amita had shown up at his apartment and all hell had broken loose. Yeah, it felt like that.

He stopped gathering papers and said, "Hey, Buddy. Need something?"

Charlie hesitated, shifting back and forth on his feet, and then said quietly, "I'm going to go do what you suggested, on Saturday." At Don's quizzical look, he hastened to explain. "You know, the ashes. I'm driving up to a spot by Morro Bay that Amita really liked. I, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to come along." Before Don could say anything he hurried on. "It's pretty far – it's three or four hours to get up there – it's okay if you can't make it. I just thought I'd ask, if you, uh, you know…"

Don had been afraid that Charlie wanted to ask him to go out that very night, and he already had plans with Robin. He was free, though, on Saturday, and he almost stumbled over his words trying to accept. "Sure, yeah, Charlie, I'd like to go with you. Is Dad going too?"

A look of relief crossed Charlie's face, and Don felt a surge of relief himself, at the sight. Charlie really had wanted him there. It made him feel good. "No," said Charlie. "I mean, I didn't want to ask him – he has that big golf tournament this weekend – the one he looks forward to every year. They're all staying at a resort overnight and he already has reservations. If I asked him, he might feel obligated to go with me – or us. And I think I need to do it this weekend, before I change my mind."

He regarded Don earnestly, and Don read the subliminal message. This wasn't just a request for support – Charlie apparently wanted to spend this time – and share this very important task – with him. He felt the starting of a lump in his throat, and he spoke a little huskily as he clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "I'd be honored to go, Buddy. Let me know what time you want to leave – I can be there early."

Charlie smiled, and although it didn't quite erase the sadness in his eyes, it was the closest thing to a real smile Don had seen in months. "Thanks," he said simply.

And then a few moments later, all hell broke loose.

* * *

As luck and timing would have it, they all headed down to the garage together – Don, Charlie, Colby, David and Nikki. They all parked on the same level, and there were others already on that floor when they got there; later Don remembered the sound of cars doors shutting, and then a couple of cars drove off, down the ramp to the exit, normal quitting-time traffic. They all exchanged good-byes at the elevator and headed down the aisle toward their respective vehicles – Don's and Charlie's and Nikki's towards the left, David's and Colby's toward the right. Colby was asking Charlie something as they stepped off the elevators and the two of them stopped in the middle of the aisle to chat before they separated to go to their cars.

Don and Nikki headed down the aisle to the left. She was closer to the elevator by a few cars, parked on the left side of the aisle, and as she split off, Don gave her a wave and a 'good night', and headed toward his SUV, which was parked just a bit further down on the right side of the aisle. He was just coming around the back side of the SUV and starting toward the driver's side door when the shooting began.

Don was sandwiched between his vehicle and a car next to him, and as he heard the pop-pop of the gun and the thunk-thunk of bullets burying themselves in vehicles around him, he reacted instinctively. The shots were coming from further down the aisle, from a larger parking area – someone on Nikki's side of the aisle but well down from both of them was shooting. Don dove behind the car next to his SUV, darting down to the right front corner of the car, and popped up over the hood and fired a few answering rounds, yelling "Shooter!" As he did that, he was hearing exclamations behind him and the sound of running feet as the others scrambled for cover, and then he heard some answering shots from his team as he caught a glimpse of the shooter, an unidentifiable figure in a dark hoodie, tucked among some vehicles at the other end of the garage. Almost as soon as Don shot, an answering stream of bullets came back at him, and he lurched, ducking, going down behind the car, squatting behind the front tire for cover. He was the closest one to the shooter and was pinned down – he was going to need support from his team to get out of there.

As he went down, he heard Charlie call out his name, screaming, and then Colby and David were yelling; Colby: "Charlie, no!" and David: "Cover him!" The gunfire intensified; bullets flying from both directions.

Don's heart gave an uncomfortable lurch and he scrambled toward the back tire of the car so he could see around the back side of his SUV. He caught his breath in terror – Charlie was running full tilt toward him, a hail of bullets around him as he ran. Charlie reached the SUV and threw himself past it to land at Don's side, still calling out Don's name, his trembling hands reaching for him.

Don grabbed his arms and yanked him down behind the car, and he tightened his grip and shook him hard, yelling, "Charlie, what in the hell are you doing?!" He scanned him anxiously; miraculously, Charlie hadn't been hit.

Charlie had tears in his eyes; he was shaking and stammering. "I th-thought you were hit!" Don stopped shaking him, staring – it looked as though Charlie was disintegrating in front of him, shuddering with unreasonable terror. "I s-saw you go d-down," he managed, and then Don understood. When the shots had come through Don had thrown himself down and his SUV had blocked his brother's line of sight; without a clear view, Charlie thought he'd gone down because he'd been shot.

He pulled Charlie next to him, putting his free arm around him, and said, "I'm okay, Charlie – I'm not hit, I just ducked. I'm not going anywhere." The words themselves were gentle but they came out through clenched teeth; adrenaline was still rocking him, and he wanted to shake him again, but they were still under fire. He shot a glance around the back of the SUV, back down the aisle at David and Nikki, who had taken up positions on either side of the aisle and were firing back past him at their assailant. From his position, he could see that Colby was going back for the elevators, and Don grunted in approval. There were stairs on the far side of the garage – if Colby went down a floor on the elevator, he could run across it and take the stairs back up and get behind the man. The elevator doors were hidden behind cars and were at an angle slightly away from the shooter – the man couldn't see Colby or the elevator doors from where he was.

Colby wasted no time; in only moments, Don heard him calling from the far side of the garage, yelling at the shooter to drop his weapon. Instead, there was a barrage of gunfire, then silence, then Colby's voice calling, "Clear!"

Don let David and Nikki run past him, then, still shaking with residual terror and anger, turned to Charlie and grabbed his arms again, pulling his face right up to his. "Don't you EVER do that again," he hissed. "You could have been killed. Do you understand me?"

He gave him another little shake for emphasis, and Charlie whispered, "Yes." His face was tear-stained and he looked miserable, but he was starting to look a little more rational, at least.

Don released him and took in a deep breath and ran a hand down his face, and then got to his feet to join his team. "Stay there," he ordered curtly, and Charlie nodded mutely, put his arms on his knees and lowered his head down onto them, still leaning against the back of the car.

Sirens were already sounding, and a few of the agents who were left upstairs came running out of the elevator as Don approached the group, clustered between some cars, looking down at the would-be assassin, who had a darker stain blossoming on the front of his dark hoodie. Colby had hit center mass; the man was obviously dead. Don knelt and surveyed the motionless figure on the ground; he looked familiar. "Jamar Anderson," he said, as he rose to his feet. The bust had been years ago, but Don remembered it. Marcus Anderson, Jamar's brother had been killed, and Jamar had gone away for six years for drug trafficking. Both of them were part of one of the gangs that Charlie had been studying for his project.

David nodded. "He just got out last week."

Nikki raised an eyebrow. "Is Charlie okay?"

"Yeah," said Don wearily. "He's okay – he scared the freakin' hell out of me, but he's fine." An ambulance pulled up and they stepped back out of the way as the medics rushed in, but they all knew that there wasn't much reason to hurry. Jamar would be going back to the hospital in a body bag.

End, Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Thanks again to my very thoughtful reviewers. Brother moment, dead ahead..._

Chapter 27

Early Saturday morning, Don lifted a backpack out of the back of his SUV and trudged toward the Craftsman. The door was open, and he let himself in. Charlie came out from the kitchen to see who it was as Don set the backpack on the floor. Charlie looked somber, his dark eyes a little wide, as if the terror from Thursday evening was still percolating inside. Don could relate to that - he'd woken sweating, sitting bolt upright in bed last night after a nightmare, one that featured Charlie being cut down by gunfire in the FBI building garage. They exchanged greetings and Charlie said quietly, "Did you tell Dad – about, you know, what happened, yet?"

Don shook his head. "No. No sense ruining his golf trip." He didn't promise to tell him later; he wasn't sure he would. It wouldn't be the first time he'd neglected to tell his father – or Charlie for that matter – that he'd been shot at. The difference was, this time Charlie had been shot at, too. He eyed Charlie closely. "You didn't say anything, did you?"

Charlie shook his head. Don clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good."

"Dad's upstairs," said Charlie. "There's breakfast in the kitchen."

They went in together and had coffee, and an egg casserole that had just come out of the oven. Their father breezed in, golf shoes in hand, and gave Don's shoulder a hearty pat. "Good morning." He set his shoes by the door, then turned and shot Charlie a glance as he reached for a plate. "Are you sure you don't want me to go with you today?"

Charlie shook his head, and sent Don a look that was almost shy; grateful. "No, Dad, it's fine. We'll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your weekend."

Alan nodded, filled his plate with casserole and sat down, giving Don a quick glance. Don could read approval in it; he knew his father would like to go, but he also suspected that Alan was glad to see him with Charlie, dealing with something as important as this together. Their father knew what a long rocky road it had been for the two of them in their efforts to establish a relationship, and he was always willing to take himself out of the equation if he thought his absence would further that end – and especially now, after the recent events. Today, as significant as it was in Charlie's life, was one of those days.

A little later, after they'd tossed their backpacks into the back seat of Charlie's car, they were on their way. Well, Don tossed his. Charlie set his backpack carefully on the backseat; Amita's ashes were securely wrapped inside, but he was gentle with the pack, nonetheless. He insisted on driving, so they took the Prius. "Gets better gas mileage, anyway," said Charlie. "Maybe you can help drive on the way back." Ordinarily he would tease Don about that, about the fact that his vehicle got much better mileage than Don's powerful SUV, but today his words were practical, matter-of-fact. No teasing, no glimmer of a smile.

No, Charlie was surprisingly calm and… Don searched for a word…. businesslike, on the drive north. He wasn't lighthearted, but they did chat during the trip, mostly about the case, but also other things, like stories that had been in the news lately, or sports, and fact that Ree, Robin's sister had been interviewing Charlie and one of his students for an article. They chatted nearly incessantly, as a matter of fact, and in all those words, there were no tears, no sighs; no talk of Amita. It made Don wonder what was going on in that dark, curly head. Maybe this wouldn't be as gut-wrenching as he'd feared. Maybe Charlie was finally beginning to come to terms with her loss. Or maybe, thought Don with a frown, as he glanced sideways at his brother, there was something else going on here.

Charlie pulled off the highway at Pismo Beach, a little more than three hours into the drive. "We'll grab a box lunch here – there's a great little café down this street. We have about an hour to go yet, and it will be lunchtime by the time we get up there. We'll be a little north of the state park – there are not a lot of restaurants around there. I figured we could take the carryout there and eat before we tackle the climb." He spoke matter-of-factly as he parked the car. It could have been any other drive, except for the fact that Charlie paused to carefully retrieve the backpack from the backseat and ease it onto his back. He apparently was taking no chances with his precious package.

* * *

Charlie adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, and started down the walk. He pointed down the street with a glance at Don, who had fallen in behind him. "There's the café, with that green and white awning. They specialize in picnic lunches for the beach."

Don nodded amiably; he looked happy to stretch his legs. Charlie almost smiled at his look of relief, but the smile faded from his face as his gaze swung back to the street. He'd been doing so well in the car – keeping his mind off the inevitable, talking non-stop about anything else so he wouldn't have to think about why they were here, but the sight of the sun on the street, the beach atmosphere, the tourists passing by, abruptly brought back memories. Suddenly it was Amita beside him instead of Don, smiling, tilting her head at him, her dark hair stirred by the ocean breeze. He could hear her laughter, he could smell her perfume… It had been such a glorious day, and he would never see her again, never, ever, have a day like that again. Grief hit him anew, somehow stronger than ever, twisting his heart in his chest, stealing his breath.

"Charlie, are you okay?"

Don was peering anxiously at him, one hand on his shoulder, and Charlie came back to the present. He had stopped cold in the middle of sidewalk, shaking. He pushed the memory aside with an effort, pulling his sunglasses off and wiping tears from his face with an embarrassed swipe of his sleeve. "Yeah," he said, huskily, and started forward again slowly, his head down, still wiping his face, until he had control again. He put his sunglasses back on, grateful that they hid his eyes, and chanced a sideways glance at his brother. "I'm sorry," he said, trying for a rueful smile, and achieving only a sad twist of his mouth. "It just kind of hit me, there. Amita and I stopped here, too, on the way up. I just, the memory of it… I don't know…," he fumbled for words. It had seemed so real…

"It's okay, Buddy," Don said softly, as he gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze. "You don't have to apologize." Some of the concern had left his face, but he was still watching Charlie carefully as they proceeded down the sidewalk. Somehow they made it to the café, ordered, got their lunches and made it back to the car. Don wanted to drive, but Charlie refused; he was hoping the act of driving would help him get a grip again, that controlling the car would translate into control of his thoughts. It did help, a little. By the time they got up to Morro Bay, he felt a little more stable, although he could still feel the emotions just there under the surface, roiling and bubbling, waiting to erupt.

* * *

Don stepped out of the car and looked around him.

They had pulled off the highway into the state park and wound through it until they reached a little-used dirt road that meandered in through the trees toward the cliffs that lined the ocean. Charlie had pulled into a spot where the grass had been pushed down by other cars; there was no one else there. In front of them, the cliffs wound steeply up; on the other side of that hill, Don knew, were the waters of Estero Bay, stretching out to the Pacific. Charlie had told him that there was a magnificent view at the top. Don looked up and frowned at the steepness of the climb; it seemed daunting even to him and he was worried about Charlie's physical – and emotional – ability to tackle such a task right now. His episode in the street had scared the hell out of Don; Charlie had stopped dead and had literally had started shaking, and Don had had a flashback to the airport when Amita left, remembering Charlie shaking just like that, before he collapsed and his heart stopped.

He moved around the back of the car over to Charlie, who was pulling out their sack lunches, his shoulders slumped. "Charlie, I, uh – I'm not sure this is a good idea. That's pretty steep. Maybe we should find a nice stretch of beach along here, close by, instead."

Charlie's head came up, and his eyes flashed. "No – no way," he said, firmly. "She told me the day we came here that this was her favorite place on earth. It has to be here. And I'm fine, and it's not as bad as it looks, okay?" He thrust Don's lunch at him.

They got back in the Prius to eat their lunches; there was nowhere else to sit, but they left the doors open, for air. Charlie picked at his sandwich, managed to get half of it down. He stuffed the other half in his bag, and Don took it from him. "I'll stick this in my backpack, for later," he said. "You're not getting out of eating your lunch, even today."

"Okay, _Dad_ ," said Charlie, but he softened the sarcasm with a ghost of a smile, and a look that was almost appreciative. He sighed, and looked up the cliff. "The path winds up the hill, so there's really only one place where it's steep enough that we have to climb a little. Most of it is walkable."

By walkable, Charlie meant that one could walk upright, without using his hands. Apparently that didn't mean that it was easy. The path wound back and forth in a series of steep switchbacks, and it was like climbing stairs – relentless, never-ending stairs. They took it in stretches, Charlie climbing until he was out of breath, and every time he stopped, Don sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, and sucked in air himself. In fact, he was barely keeping up with Charlie, as weak and thin as he looked. Of course, Don thought to himself, being heavier was not an advantage on a climb like this.

They hit one very steep spot where they had to climb up using their hands, grasping small trees and roots to help them get up. By the time they neared the top, they were sweating profusely and gasping for air. Then the ground began to level a bit. They took a few steps between some large outcroppings of rock and wound their way through a narrow growth of trees – and there it was.

The view was stunning. In front of them and far below, the blue waters of Estero Bay and the Pacific stretched away into the distance, glinting in the sun. The place where they stood was surround by rock on all sides except for the narrow stretch of trees behind them through which they had come, and the open cliff edge in front of them. At the back cliff face to their left, a small waterfall splashed down the rock into a tiny clear pool. It was a private glen, a Shangri-la on top of the world.

"Wow," Don breathed, still panting from the climb. "How did you find this, again?"

"A friend of Larry's," said Charlie. "One of the undergrads in the physics department. Someone told him about it and he checked it out, then told Larry about it, and he mentioned it to me."

Don eyed the tiny waterfall. It was just a trickle, coursing down the rock face, but it fell freely the last two feet or so into a small natural rock basin. "Where in the heck is that water coming from? There can't be a spring way up here."

"The grad student had rock-climbing gear – he got up those rocks." Charlie pointed above their heads. "He said there's a deep depression in one of them – like a natural cistern. It's fed by rain, and some of it trickles down the face, down to this level, and creates that little pool." He looked at the pool, and back at the view. "Hindu custom says the ashes should be sprinkled in water. I'd like to honor that custom for Tapti and Sanjay – there is water all around us here. But of course, above all, this is the spot that I think Amita would pick."

He stepped forward toward the ocean to a large boulder, where he unslung his back pack and placed it at his feet, and then sat and bowed his head his head for a long moment. Don followed him and sat next to him, quietly, and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's a great choice, Buddy," he said softly. "You're doing the right thing by her."

Charlie nodded, then suddenly his face crumpled and he ducked his head, putting up a hand to hide his face. A broken sob escaped him, and his shoulders shook. _He is still full of so much grief_ , Don thought sadly. _And here I thought he had come to terms with this._ There was no doubt, seeing him here like this, seeing him shaking in the middle of the street at Pismo Beach; that Charlie was nowhere near over this yet. Until today, he'd been hiding it well, and it made Don wonder what else his brother was hiding. He'd seen a similar meltdown from him earlier this week, in the garage during the shooting – a sudden spate of emotion that drove him into a hail of bullets. It was clear, deep down inside, that Charlie was wrestling with unresolved emotions that up until now, he'd done a good job of burying.

Eventually Charlie managed to control his tears, and he wiped his face and raised his head, his gaze on the far horizon. They sat there silently, for a long while.

* * *

Charlie took a deep shaky breath and straightened. He was aware of Don sitting at his side, and he knew it had been a good thing to bring him along. If he'd come by himself, he wasn't sure he'd be able to go through with it. Amita's ashes had been the last link to his old life, and letting them go symbolically ushered in his future – the future he once feared he would have before he met her – a sad, solitary existence, looking in at the normal lives of others from the outside. He wiped his face and bent and retrieved the box from the backpack at his feet, unwrapping it carefully. Then he opened it, lifted out the bag containing the ashes and set the box on his pack. Still holding the bag of ashes, he and rose and stepped forward, to the edge of the cliff.

There, looking down at the surf pounding on the rocks below, for just a split second he thought about how it might be to just fly, to leave the earth, accepting death on the rocks below as Amita had accepted it that night, months ago, in her hospital room. And then he was aware of Don's solid presence just behind him, and thought again it was good he was here because as tempting as an end to his pain might be, even if he had a moment of irrationality and succumbed to the thought, he would never do that in front of Don. Instead, he opened the bag. He thought about Amita for a moment, her sad last days as prisoner in that hospital, fighting a battle with a cruel illness from which there was no escape. Then he turned the bag over and let the wind take most of the ashes. They whirled away, spiraling down the cliffs toward the waves until they dispersed into nothingness. "Be free, Amita," Charlie whispered. "I will always have you in my heart."

Tears rose and threatened again and temporarily partially blinded, he backed away from the cliff's edge, feeling Don's hand on his arm, guiding him back to safety. Then he turned and walked shakily back to the grotto, to the small waterfall and the pool, Don following behind him. There, Charlie knelt and let the remainder of the ashes slide out of the bag. They cut into the water with a sibilant whisper and settled on the bottom.

He knelt there, staring into the clear water of the pool for a few moments through his tears, just letting them come and course down his face unchecked. After a few moments, he heard a choked sob from behind him, and it was that sound that finally roused him. He stayed for just a moment more, letting the trickling sound of the water seep through him, and rose and turned. Don was there, tears on his face, something that Charlie had never seen before, but he was too steeped in misery to feel surprise. Tears still coursed down his own face, his throat ached too much to speak. He took a step forward, and his brother took him into his arms and held him for a long moment, pressing Charlie's head into his chest, whispering, "It's going to be okay, Charlie. It may not feel like it now, but it will be."

Finally, Don released him, and they went back to the boulder and sat down again.

* * *

Don studied his brother for a moment, still trying to fight back the pain of seeing him on his knees, crying silently at the side of the pool. He reached into his back pack and pulled out a flask, opened it, and offered it to Charlie, the smell of bourbon wafting out into the clear air. "I thought maybe you'd need this." In truth, he was glad he'd brought it; Charlie was holding so much inside himself, still. And Don had noticed more than once that a little alcohol seemed to loosen his lips. Maybe just a bit of it would allow him to open up and get some of his heartache out in the open where it could be dealt with – and at the very least alleviate a little of the pain.

Charlie took it from him, hesitated just a moment, and lifted it to his lips. He choked down a swallow and then handed it back to Don, and they looked out at the Pacific. "To Amita," Don said softly, lifting the flask, and taking a drink himself. He glanced sideways at Charlie. "I'm proud of you, Buddy," he said softly. "I know this wasn't easy."

"Yeah," said Charlie, despondently. He lifted his head slightly, as if looking out on the horizon. "I didn't mean to break down like that. It's just so –final. I just don't think I'll ever find that again."

Don frowned. "Find what again?"

Charlie sighed, and waved a hand vaguely, as if he was trying to dismiss the subject. "Someone – marriage."

Don's frown intensified. "What do you mean? Sure you will. You're young, Charlie – you have plenty of time. You may not feel much like looking just yet, but you will." He handed Charlie the flask and Charlie raised it in a salute as well, then took another drink.

"It doesn't much matter whether I look or not," Charlie mumbled, handing the flask back. He sighed. "Let's just drop it. It's not something you would understand."

Don felt a flash of hurt. "Why not?"

Charlie shook his head, hedging for a moment, then blurted, "Because you don't have this issue. You never have. You have a normal social life; you've never had a problem finding a girl. Amita was it for me. I'm – I'm clueless socially, and you know it and I know it. Amita was an anomaly. That was one reason why I had such a hard time letting her go, with dealing with her ashes. There won't be another. She got me, like no other woman could."

Don shook his head vehemently. "Charlie, that's crazy. It may not seem like it now, but you _will_ find someone else." He studied his brother, then asked another question, not sure he would like the answer. "If you weren't ready for this yet, Charlie, why did you come today?"

Charlie shot him a look, licked his lips a little nervously and looked back out at the water. "Because I know it was the right thing to do for her," he said quietly, "whether I was ready or not. And because you thought I should – and you were right," he added hastily.

"Charlie," Don protested, feeling a pang. He knew he shouldn't have brought up dealing with her ashes that day in Charlie's office, he _knew_ it. Charlie had given in to him on a huge decision too readily, without question, just because he had suggested it. It made him think back to the kiss, to Charlie's quick willingness to forgive him his part in it – _too_ quickly. They'd come so far as brothers, and Don keenly wanted that, wanted a solid relationship. This – this thing that they had, though, made him feel guilty, heavy-handed. He could sense it; the desperation, or hero worship, or whatever it was that Charlie felt; he'd been an idiot not to see it before. Was Charlie really that dependent on him? It wasn't right – a good relationship should be more – _equal_. He fell silent for a moment, thinking back to the shooting in the garage. "Charlie, I need to ask you something – why did you do what you did in the garage the other day? You ran right into gunfire. What made you do that?"

Charlie looked at him then, directly, sadly. "I lost you once, when I thought you and Amita were – having an affair. I – just couldn't handle it – it hurt too much. I suspected I was losing her – but to lose you both, it was too much." He looked away, back at the ocean. "I already told you, that day in the garage I thought you'd been shot when I saw you go down. I'd just felt as though I had gotten you back, and I thought I'd lost you again." He looked at Don pleadingly, as if willing him to understand. "I've always wanted a real relationship with you. Not brothers just in name, but real closeness. I would do, and have always done, anything to get it." He flushed, and looked quickly away as if aware that he'd said too much, and reached for the flask and downed another big swallow.

Don looked at him, his brow furrowed. "Charlie, tell me this, then. I need to know. Did you really forgive me for that kiss?

"I already told you I did." Charlie frowned, handing the flask back.

"Yes, but why?" Don demanded. "Did you feel I deserved to be forgiven, or did you just do it so you wouldn't rock the boat between us?"

"We already know it wasn't your fault – it was her."

Don stared at him, still feeling as though he wasn't getting the answer to his question. The problem was, he wasn't sure what the question was. "Okay, then, what if it happened the same way, but instead of pushing her away, I got caught up in the moment and kissed her back. Would you have forgiven me for _that_?"

Charlie fell silent for a moment.

"Charlie. Answer the question."

"I think I already did," he said quietly, "when I told you I would do anything to have a real relationship, as brothers, as friends. For a brief transgression, yes, I would forgive you."

Don felt a rush of helpless emotion, felt tears sting his eyes. That Charlie felt that way – it just wasn't right. "Charlie – that is so _… lopsided_."

Charlie looked up at him, earnestly. "It shouldn't matter. You know I love you. If you care for me back, and I think you do or you wouldn't be here, that's enough for me. Just don't - ,"

He paused and looked down. "Don't what?" Don prompted.

"Don't ever leave me," Charlie mumbled. "I can't bear to lose you – no matter how it happened."

He wiped at tears on his face, and Don felt tears of his own welling up. Was Charlie really that desperate, that lonely? Was this some misguided, disproportional sense of big-brother hero worship? Or did he simply love his brother that much? Maybe all of the above. Although Don had come to care about his younger brother, very much, he had the sense that when it came to their relationship, he wasn't where Charlie was – at least not yet. It violated his sense of fairness, and his inclination was to fight against it, to lecture Charlie to be stronger, to somehow make it even. It made him want to pull away, so that Charlie would see that he had to be tough and strong himself and back off a little…

And then it hit him. He'd been doing that his whole life – pulling away, keeping himself just out of reach, emotionally. He had done it with every woman he'd ever met, until he finally managed to figure out how to get past that with Robin, and he'd done it with Charlie – and in spite of how far they had come, he was still doing it. He wasn't the tough one, when it came to their relationship – _Charlie_ was. That selflessness, that willingness to stick by him no matter what, wasn't weakness – far from it. The lopsidedness in this relationship was coming from him – not Charlie. The realization took his breath for a moment. If he really wanted to progress and have that solid relationship with Charlie, he had to be brave enough to take without question what his brother was offering him: the gift of unconditional love. And even braver still – to give it back.

Charlie's head was down, he looked shamed; humiliated by his revelations, and Don hated that he'd made him feel that way. He put his hand on Charlie's shoulder and said, "I'm not sure what to say to that, Buddy. I don't feel like I've earned it. But I will tell you one thing, starting now, I am going to try like hell to deserve it."

Charlie looked up quickly, his eyes searching Don's face, and then a small smile crept to his face. He nodded and Don leaned over and gave him a one-armed hug and gently took the flask. "I think we'd better get down this hill while we can still walk," said Don, with a smile back.

Charlie nodded again. "I just need a minute more," he said.

"Take all the time you need," Don said, and he picked up his backpack and retreated back to the line of trees and the trail that led to the other side of the hill, and waited. Charlie put the box back in his backpack and zipped it, lifted the pack and took a couple of steps forward, looking out over the view for a long moment, the breeze ruffling his hair. Finally, he turned and made his way back to Don.

"Let's go home," said Charlie.

End Chapter 27

 _A/N: Only the Epilogue remains. There are four notable kisses in the chapters you have read so far. Can you name them? I'll leave you with a list at the end of the story, along with a couple more, coming up._


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I had no idea what Robin's religious beliefs are, if any, so I picked a denomination at random for purposes of the story. This is just a note that my choice is not necessarily canon. And now for the Epilogue, otherwise known as "Look at that"..._

Chapter 28 (Epilogue)

Not quite a year later, Charlie adjusted his bow tie in the mirror and gave his new tux a tug. He'd bought one for the occasion; he needed one from time to time anyway for awards dinners and school functions, and his old one was too big. He had to look good today; his big brother was getting married.

He stared in the mirror for a moment, his thoughts ranging back over the last year and a half – it had been nearly that long since Amita had died. The emotional pain of losing her was still there, always in the background, but life had come to the forefront again, slowly, but surely. His teaching career was a lifesaver – that part of his life was as much in full swing as it ever was, and so was his consulting work with his brother. On top of other cases, he had been working non-stop on the A.I. programming for the cameras, the project inspired by Amita. Somehow, strangely, even after his humiliating confessions to his brother on the cliffs over Estero Bay, their relationship had begun to shift, slowly, for the better. Charlie couldn't understand it – he was sure that Don would have seen his statements as weakness, but for some reason, after that conversation the power in the relationship had seemed to start to equalize. His brother seemed much more invested emotionally in the relationship, much more willing to listen to Charlie's opinions and thoughts – on everything, not just on cases. Don was changing as he got older, perhaps, Charlie mused. He was getting mellower. He'd been promoted this past year, and while still in command of his team and now other teams as well, he rarely went into the field anymore, a blessing for which Charlie was devoutly thankful, as was their father – and Robin.

Although, Charlie admitted, just because Don wasn't facing as much physical danger anymore, it didn't seem as though he was any less stressed at work. He was just as sharp and keen and demanding of himself and others as he had always been. And he leaned on Charlie for consulting more than ever; Charlie was now working with multiple teams, in addition to Don's original group. Something had changed, though. He couldn't really put a finger on it, but Charlie felt closer to, and more confident in his relationship with his brother than he had ever been. Perhaps, he mused, some of what had changed was him – looking back on the terrible events that followed Don and Amita's kiss, Charlie realized how damaged his self-confidence had been at the time; and how much more he felt like his former self, now.

And that made today just a little easier. As much as Charlie felt joy for his brother, Don's marriage was a departure in a way, and a reminder that it was unlikely that Charlie would ever have the same thing. He was determined not to be lonely, however; he'd made that decision shortly after he had released Amita's ashes, and he had made a point to reach out to others, socially. In the last year, he'd expanded his world by making several good friends with some of the faculty members in addition to Larry, and some of them were even women. Not that he was interested in them, or them in him, in a romantic way (which he really took as no surprise), but it was nice to talk with members of the opposite sex, at least. And with Ree, he reminded himself. She'd been back and forth during the course of the year, doing a series of articles on women in the mathematics and sciences fields and sometimes she stopped in for information, but sometimes just to chat. She was smart and funny and engaging, and he found himself relaxing around her in spite of her being female and beautiful, and so socially gifted. He actually loved being with her, and had to keep reminding himself to hold back a little on his natural attraction to her, to try to put her out of his mind when she left, because she was way out of his league. But they had fun talking, so it was possible, maybe, if he got enough practice, he could learn to make conversation with a woman outside academia, and hold discussions that didn't include theorems and hypotheses. And in the past month or two, after hours of wrestling with the idea and the guilt he felt over moving on, he had come to the decision he might even be ready to start dating again – although that point was moot, he reminded himself. He actually needed someone to be interested in him for that to happen, and the chances of that were slim to none.

He came out of his reverie and looked at his watch, with a start. Time to go. It wouldn't do for the best man to be late. He strode to his desk and tucked the pouch with the rings safely in his pocket, and hurried out the door and down the stairs. Had to see if the old man was ready…

He was, in fact. He was standing the living room, waiting, looking quite dapper, and with a joyful smile that – until last night at the rehearsal dinner – Charlie hadn't seen in over a year. He smiled back at his father. "Look at you. You ready?"

"Absolutely," said Alan.

The trip to the church – Robin was Methodist, although Don's rabbi was also a part of the ceremony – was a blur, as was getting inside and situated at the front of the altar. He stood with David and Colby, who Don had asked to be groomsmen, and with Don himself, who stood in front of Charlie, next to the aisle. Charlie was actually a little nervous, afraid the ceremony would remind him too much of his own wedding to Amita. The music started, and to his horror, he felt himself choking up a little. He fought it down and pasted a smile on his face as two of Robin's friends from the office – bridesmaids – paced themselves down the aisle in time to the music. Then all thoughts of tears vanished and he caught his breath as Ree, the maid of honor, came into view.

It was as though everyone in the church had sunk into the floor beneath their pews, and she was the only one in the place – a petite, radiant vision in a gown that was not quite cream and not quite peach, but some heavenly concoction of both. It set off her blue eyes and her blond hair, done up in a soft up-do with tendrils hanging down here and there. The church was a proper setting, because she looked ethereal and perfect, like an angel. Charlie felt his smile creeping back to his face – a stupid, loopy smile, no doubt. Then the wedding march began, and Robin came down the aisle on her father's arm in a long white flowing Queen Anne-style gown, tall, regal, and breathtakingly beautiful. There was the formal handing of her to Don, the lifting of the veil and the ceremony began, and Charlie focused on the proceedings, feeling his heart swell with love and happiness for his brother as he watched his face. And once or twice, he snuck a glance sideways at Ree, and just once, and only once, let himself wonder what it would be like, if he could be with her…

Then he jerked his mind back to reality and mentally chided himself. Even if he felt that way, she wouldn't – she was far too beautiful and worldly to be interested in him, with her glamorous, jet-setting career. And then he shuddered as a thought occurred to him. If he did ask her out and she declined – he could actually imagine the pity in her eyes when she did it – it wasn't as if they could go their separate ways. There would be family functions – they would need to see each other again, and it would be humiliating, and awkward and horrible, and they could never again have those long, nice, relaxed chats…

No, he couldn't even allow himself to dream of it; it would be disastrous. He forced his attention back to the ceremony, and didn't look at her again.

* * *

After the wedding, Don sat at the center of the wedding party table on the dais, his hand lightly resting on Robin's, and surveyed the reception with a smile. He glanced at Robin – God, she looked beautiful – and his heart felt full. He had never been this happy – had never dreamed he could be. After all the missteps with past relationships, including his and Robin's, even on his wedding day there had been the secret dread that he would show up at the church and she wouldn't. He knew, rationally, that they had moved beyond any issues long ago, but he couldn't help but feel a little relief that it was over, and she was his. The relief, added to the surge of happiness he felt when he looked at her, made him almost euphoric. The glass of champagne in front of him was superfluous; completely unnecessary.

He was pulled from his thoughts as Robin looked over his shoulder and smiled and nudged him, and said, "Look at that."

He turned and looked to his right; Charlie and Ree were seated next to them at the long table, and Charlie had thrown his head back in laughter at something Ree had said; she was giggling, too, a little mischievously.

"Your sister is hilarious," murmured Don, smiling as he watched them. "That's the first time I think I've seen Charlie laugh like that in almost two years."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Robin murmured back, still watching them with a bemused smile, her gaze speculative.

People were gathering at their tables; it was time for the toast, traditionally given by the best man. Don couldn't help but wonder how Charlie would do – the events had to remind of his own wedding and of Amita, but he needn't have worried. Charlie seemed as at ease as he usually was in front of a lecture hall, and his speech was brilliant – funny and heartwarming – and maybe Don was a little biased, but he thought it was the best speech any best man had ever given. He glanced at Robin and smiled, and she smiled back, but when her eyes drifted back past him, he realized that she was not watching Charlie, but Ree, who sat raptly gazing up at his brother with a smile. He glanced back at Robin, and then at Ree, and then at Charlie, and said to himself, " _Hmm_."

Dinner commenced, and everyone seemed to enjoy the food. Don ate his, more out of a sense of propriety than anything else, because he was too happy to be hungry. Then it was time to kick off the dancing – the first traditional dance between bride and groom, followed by family and members of the wedding party. As Don took Robin into his arms for a slow, leisurely turn around the floor, he thought to himself, " _Now this is more like it_." He was completely mesmerized by her, by how she looked, how she felt against him, so much so that he mostly ignored the other couples being introduced - Robin's parents, his father and Robin's aunt, who was their father's dinner partner, Charlie and Ree, and Colby and David and their respective partners: Robin's bridesmaids. He was drinking in Robin's face when she nudged him again, and murmured, "Look at that."

She pulled on his arm to signal that he should turn them, and they spun around slowly, and he caught sight of Charlie and Ree, smiling and quietly talking as they danced, the dark head and blonde head lowered toward each other, and very close. They looked so natural together and completely oblivious to everyone else in the room, Don thought, but when Robin pressed, "Do you see that?" he deflected.

"See what?"

She rolled her eyes and punched his arm a little, but smiled as she did it.

The dance ended and Don reluctantly released her as they left the dance floor. The music was picking up and as the wedding party and relatives vacated the floor, other guests were joining in. Don and Robin began to circulate among the guests, making the rounds. They ended up stuck for longer than expected at a table with some elderly cousins of Robin's, and after a few excruciating moments too many, Don excused himself and headed over to the other side of the dance floor to check on his father, who was standing there with Colby and David, stopping first to talk to some of the other guests he had invited from the office, including Nikki Betancourt and her date, and his boss, Assistant Director Wright, and his wife.

As he came up on his father, Alan held open his arms and gave him a quick hug, and said, smiling, "It's going beautifully."

Don smiled back. "Yes, it is."

His father then lowered his head conspiratorially, and said with a sly smile and a small jerk of his head toward the dance floor, "Look at that."

Don somehow already knew what he'd be looking at, and his eyes found Charlie and Ree in the middle of the floor. They hadn't left it when the other wedding party guests had, apparently; they'd stayed out there. They were still dancing and trying to have some kind of conversation over the music. Don couldn't help but bait his father a little. "Look at what?"

Alan stared at him, and then decided his son was teasing him and made a face. "You know what I'm talking about. Charlie and Ree – they really seem to be getting along well."

"They have to, Dad, they're family now. Care for a drink? I've got a few minutes before we have to cut the cake."

His father looked a little disappointed at Don's glib response, but he nodded, and they headed for the bar, along with David and Colby.

His father was right – the evening was going well. Don had admittedly left most of the planning to Robin. To her credit, she asked for his opinion on every major decision, but she probably needn't have bothered, because he verbally rubber-stamped every idea. It somehow didn't befit an agent to be too involved in wedding planning – but now that all of her planning was smoothly becoming reality, Don found himself thoroughly enjoying the evening, so much that he was just a bit disappointed when it was all over. They were staying at a hotel by the airport that evening, and the limo was due to arrive soon. It wasn't until he and Robin were nearly ready to make their departure that he found Charlie, finally by himself, over near the bar.

His brother had just ordered a beer and had turned away from the bar with it when he saw Don approaching. His face lit up. "Hey, Buddy," Don said, "enjoying yourself?"

Charlie grinned. "Yes. You put on one hell of party. I don't think I've danced that much since college. In fact, I don't think I danced that much the entire time I was in college." He was perspiring a little, his tie was loosened, and he took a long drink of beer.

Don smiled. "You guys looked like you were having fun."

"We were," said Charlie. "Ree's really easy to talk to." He flushed a little. "And she's been nice enough to humor me for the evening. She'll be fun to have as a sister-in-law."

" _Hmm_ ," thought Don to himself again, but he said, "We're getting ready to go, Buddy. The limo's here – I just wanted to say thank you, especially for that toast – it was the best one I've ever heard."

Charlie flushed to the roots of his hair, but smiled a pleased smile. "It had to be – it was for the best brother anyone's ever had."

Don smiled. Maybe Charlie's statement hadn't been so true in the past, but he had to admit, he thought he was getting there. He knew what this day meant to them – a new chapter in their lives, and that it could change things – but only for the better, if he had his way. Unexpectedly, he felt the sting of tears in his eyes, and he gave Charlie a big hug. He heard the beer land on the bar with a 'thunk' and felt Charlie hug him back, briefly but heartfelt, and as they separated, Don said, "I'll see you in a week or two. We get back next Sunday."

Charlie nodded, his own eyes misting a little, but he smiled, bravely. "I know – I'm still picking you guys up at the airport, remember? Enjoy Cabo. And for God's sake, don't call the office."

Don left him there, standing by himself at the bar.

* * *

Charlie took another long drink of beer, reflecting that he was thirsty enough that maybe he should have ordered a water first, but the truth was, he needed a little lift. The evening had been so fun, and it was coming to end, and his brother was leaving, and Ree would be too…

He felt his throat beginning to close, and took another long drink and shook himself. He would not wallow in self-pity – not tonight. Tonight deserved only good feelings, good memories. Besides, he felt for the first time in his life that Don was a constant – that they'd finally reached a place of permanence in each other's lives. That was something to celebrate. Don would be back. And now here was Ree, against all odds, heading back his way, against the throng of people filtering outside, at least temporarily, to see Don and Robin off. Charlie brightened as she came up beside him, and set his beer down. "Would you like a drink?"

"Later!" said Ree, smiling and pulling on his hand. "The reception goes on for an hour yet, and the limo's here – we need to see them off." She pulled him across the floor, and they ran laughing to catch up with the crowd.

It was dark outside, but bright lights illuminated the steps of the elegant hotel. The crowd had gathered right in front of the limo, and it was nearly impossible to see over them.

"Let's go this way," said Ree, and she led the way to the side of the building, near the corner, to a veranda. "The limo's facing this direction on the street – when they leave they'll come past us. We can see them go down the street."

There was also a better view of the front from there – they were further away, but at their angle, they could see past the crowd, could see Don and Robin getting into the limo. The section of the veranda they were on was somewhat secluded, with a stone overhang, soft lighting, and potted plants, and a bench. As the limo passed by they waved, and Charlie could see Don and Robin waving back.

They stepped back around the corner and to the edge of the overhang to watch them continue down the street. From there, they could not be seen by the crowd, and Charlie couldn't help but sense the romance in the setting and the intense attraction to her that he felt. He was busy trying to fight that down and was focused on keeping his eyes fixed on the limousine, when Charlie felt Ree's hand in his. He started and flushed, a little embarrassed, and turned to face her, surprised to see her looking at him with more than a little exasperation. "Charlie Eppes," she said, firmly ( _and adorably_ , thought Charlie), "for someone so brilliant, you really are clueless." Then she stood on her tiptoes, leaned forward and kissed him.

Her lips tasted like honey and strawberries, and for a moment, he stood frozen in shock. Was this actually happening? His mind whirled – vague disjointed snatches of thought and emotion mixed together – love, longing, guilt over Amita – but he knew he had Amita's benediction; that it was right to move on. And against all odds, this wonderful, beautiful woman was standing here, kissing him. Then he reached for Ree and pulled her into his arms and deepened the kiss, and she pressed into him, and his heart soared, and he thought nothing had ever felt as wonderful as this.

* * *

Don gazed out of the back window of the limousine and smiled, then said to Robin, who had already turned forward, "Look at that."

She looked back quickly, and her mouth opened at the sight of the two lone figures embracing on the side veranda, and then her eyes met his, and they smiled at each other.

"My 'look at that' was better than yours, Mrs. Eppes," murmured Don, as he reached for her.

She smiled and said, teasingly, "But my 'look at that' was first."

"Oh, yeah?" murmured Don. "Then look at this." And he pulled her to him, cupped her face with his hand, and kissed her.

End

* * *

 _A/N: Notable kisses in The Kiss:_

 _Okay, after your responses to the kiss question, I had to add a couple of kisses to the list. I hadn't considered Don and Amita's first kiss because it was before the start of the timeline in this story, but after thinking about it, it was significant and I think it should be included. So, here is the list:_

 _Don and Amita's first kiss, many years prior_

 _Charlie and Amita's passionate kiss in the first chapter_

 _Amita and Don's fateful kiss, witnessed by Charlie, in Chapter 4_

 _Don and Robin's 'make-up' kiss in Chapter 7, after he confesses_

 _Charlie and Amita's good-bye kiss at the airport_

 _Amita's kiss on her good-bye letter to Charlie_

 _Charlie and Ree's kiss in the Epilogue_

 _Don and Robin's kiss in the Epilogue_

 _It was an interesting undertaking for me to try to write Amita as a villain (knowing all along she would actually become a tragic figure). Normally, I don't do much Amita (or any female character), or romance for that matter - I am always more focused on the brother relationship, so this story was a departure in many ways for me. Many, many thanks to all of you who read this, and especially those reviewers who reviewed every or almost every chapter – it's such an awesome thing to know that someone is out there reading when you publish something, especially a multi-chapter story. Also many thanks to those who reviewed as guests, to whom I could not respond personally. Your support means so much. A kiss to you all - Serialgal_


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